Night Terrors
by AlkalineTeegan
Summary: Casefic.  Tony and Ziva move into base housing to catch a killer—and find plenty more ghosts haunting the nights.  Not TIVA romance.  For anyone who wondered how Ziva's *really* doing after Africa.  Dark/mature themes; spoilers through Season 7.  COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is set in season eight, and it assumes (as I do) that Jackson Gibbs will be fine and Tony will return from Mexico unscathed. Again, this is not "TIVA" in the sappy puppies-and-sunshine way, but it will explore their very complicated relationship in detail. Strong warnings for language and very mature themes.

* * *

_This should have been fun. _

Tony was in bed with Ziva, but there was nothing romantic about it. In fact, there was enough space between them in the king bed to park a semi.

_A few years ago, this might have been fun. _

Ziva was snoring loudly enough to wake the dead—a thought that made Tony wince as he lay there on a Tuesday night, unable to sleep as he thought about the three dead Marine couples who had been killed in base housing at Quantico and tried _not_ to think about the partner sleeping beside him.

_A few more years ago, this _had been _fun. _

But now, he was mostly thinking that it might be better to be sleeping with McGee right now. But with the probie's being a white male, he didn't even come close to fitting the profile of the Middle Eastern women who had been killed by someone who apparently took issue with Marines who married the "enemy." So Ziva it was.

_At least she makes sense. But what the hell am I doing here? _

Tony ran a hand through his newly sheared hair and winced, remembering the obvious glee in Abby's eyes at first seeing him sporting the military cut. Gibbs had been worse, an amused spark in his eyes as he had said, "Hell, DiNozzo. You almost look like a Marine." And speaking of McGee, why wasn't he lying here, trying not to touch Ziva? As much as Tony hated to admit it, the newly McSkinny probie was in much better shape than he was and looked the part more than Tony did. Tony didn't try to comfort himself with the fact that he was simply better undercover.

_And why isn't Gibbs lying here instead of me? _

Tony figured his boss would not only look the part, catch the killer, be able to sleep without touching Ziva, but also probably cure cancer while he was at it.

Ziva shifted in her sleep, making Tony freeze and hold his breath until she had settled again. He let out the breath slowly, choking on a gasp as her hand landed on his thigh. He could have stopped to wonder why he was acting like a teenager getting felt up for the first time, but he knew why lying in bed with this woman was so terrifying.

It had little to do with the fact that she was an assassin.

It had a whole lot to do with the fact that she was a woman who had been held captive by men who killed without qualms—and likely had no issues with committing "lesser" sins against a beautiful woman being held against her will.

Ziva had not shown a single sign of her trepidation at sleeping in a strange house in a strange bed with … well, Tony wasn't a stranger, but he was certainly a stranger to Ziva's bed. But Tony, as if he had needed a reminder of what Ziva had gone through in Africa, as if he didn't still sometimes look at her and see the deadness in her eyes when that bag had been removed from her head, had gotten the message loud and clear when Abby had grasped his hand just before they left her lab and said, "Be careful, Tony." Her usually cool green eyes had been full of sparks as she had gripped his wrist fiercely. "_Inside_ the house, and out, okay?" Gibbs had been decidedly less cryptic, stopping the elevator between floors, staring straight ahead at their silvered reflections, and saying, "Ziva can handle herself in the field. But you're going to be living together until we catch this bastard. Watch her six or you might want to consider keeping that haircut."

Ziva shifted again, muttering an angry stream of words in a language Tony didn't recognize. Tony lay perfectly still, bow-string tense as her hand moved toward places he knew she would not want to be consciously touching.

"Ziva."

His soft call of her name only made the words flow faster and the hand inch higher—which sent a shiver down his spine even though he hated himself for it. He also hated the fact that he knew Gibbs and McGee were in a house down the street, listening to every word, every sound. The killer had been striking at night, first beating the husbands into submission and then making them watch while their wives were brutalized and murdered in front of their bloody faces.

This was their third night in the home and Tony had thought he would finally be able to sleep more than a few fitful moments at a time since they had spent the days introducing themselves to as many people as they could and being as conspicuous on base as possible. But the thought of someone getting past Gibbs—that right there should have told him how sleep-deprived he was—and killing Ziva while he watched helplessly still kept him up.

Tony thought back over their day, spent shopping at the commissary. To draw as much attention as possible, they decided to act like goofy lovesick teenagers and spent a good amount of time trying on random hats and sunglasses and making funny faces at each other. Tony tried not to think about the fact that it was the most fun he had had in a long time.

That is, until Ziva had squeezed his hand and pulled him into a hug, wrapping her slim arms around his waist and resting her head against his shoulder. He had looked down into sparkling eyes and a brilliant smile, and nearly thrown up when he saw Jeanne smiling back up at him. If Ziva had noticed his sudden nausea, she hadn't said anything.

Although it was more like _when_ Ziva had noticed, she hadn't said anything.

Lying in bed with the woman now, Tony forcibly removed the memory of her standing in that store, wide-brimmed Kentucky-Derby-silliness-worthy hat perched upon dark curls, and stood on her tiptoes, planting a gentle kiss on his lips and saying loudly enough for several people nearby to turn, "I love you, baby."

And Tony had stood there like a bumbling teenager—or a rookie on his first undercover assignment—until Gibbs had spoken softly in his ear.

"You love her, too, Tony."

Tony had said the words, believably enough for an older woman to lay a hand on his arm, still wrapped around his partner, and say, "You two are just lovely."

That Tony had frozen up while Ziva played wild and carefree was something he did not want to examine too closely. And speaking of examinations, Ziva's hand had reached the point where most doctors would tell him to turn his head and cough. Thoughts of Dr. Jeanne Benoit added to his discomfort, and if asked later, he would blame panic and sleep deprivation for the less-than-brilliant idea to take his own life into his hands and take her wrist into those same hands.

As soon as he touched her soft, delicate flesh, Ziva let out a cry that was part anguished wail and part enraged howl. Tony knew McGee had night-vision eyes on them and he hoped like hell that he and Gibbs would stay put. Hopes of them turning off the equipment were futile, he knew, but still he wished they would so he could talk to Ziva without an audience.

It was a wish as much for her as for him.

But those problems were secondary to the much bigger issue he suddenly faced. Although Ziva wasn't big by any means, the Sig she had pressed into Tony's belly seemed larger than life. Or larger than his life anyway, if she happened to pull the trigger in her panic. He had always thought dying in bed with a beautiful woman would be a good way to go.

He was actively revising that theory as Ziva straddled him, the cold steel of her gun searing his bare skin as she shoved it into his gut.

The pressure and the wild fury in her eyes had him lying flat on his back again, this time in Israel as his broken arm throbbed and his heart cracked in half when she told him maybe she would have been happier had Rivkin killed him. Tony had had a lot of guns pointed at him—but never had the gun been held in the oh-so capable hands of an assassin who he had thought was his partner, his friend. And that had hurt a hell of a lot more than the expertly snapped bone in his arm or the barrel of the gun jammed into his belly, still bearing bruises from her dead lover's fists.

He shoved aside those memories and tried to concentrate on the gun currently pressed into his stomach.

"Ziva."

He breathed her name, hoping she would recognize that he wasn't a threat.

Hoping she never had and never would believe he was a threat.

She was still breathing hard, her eyes open but obviously not seeing him as she flicked the safety off the gun.

Tony's heart leapt up to his throat, half-choking his words with his terror. "Ziva, _please."_

The gun shoved harder into his belly for a fraction of a second before the pressure was gone—both of the barrel and her small body.

He took a moment to get his breathing under control before sitting up, his eyes searching the dark room for his partner. She was sitting, curled in the corner, her green silk nightgown catching the moonlight streaming through the sheer curtains chosen to let a peeping tom have all the access his twisted heart desired.

In that moment, Ziva had never looked more beautiful.

Until Tony saw the tears streaming down her face as she hugged herself, curling tightly against the wall.

Tony swallowed hard, having no idea what to do or say. Thinking that anything he said would give away her emotional state to the agents listening—if they didn't already know—he decided to go to her and touch her.

It was a bad decision.

As soon as his gentle hand landed on her shoulder, she was up, still caught in the terrors of her dreams, screaming into his shocked face as her small fists beat a furious tattoo into his chest.

"Get your fucking hands off me, you fucking pig. Do not touch me. Get off me, you sick piece of shit. I fucking hate you. Stop touching me. I hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you."

The litany continued until she collapsed against him, exhausted by her pain and terror and fury. He wrapped strong arms around her, stroking her hair and whispering soothing nonsense into her ear. He felt her gasp as she started to give in to the sobs shaking her small frame with the force of an earthquake, but then she pulled away, suddenly screaming again.

She hurled furious words as she swung wildly at him with fists clenched so tight she drew blood both from his lip and her own palms where her nails dug into the flesh. The words wandered among the many languages she knew, and Tony didn't understand all of what she said.

But he also understood every word of it.

She was hurting—her pain obvious in any language.

And her suffering was making him ache in ways that had nothing to do with the physical assault he knew she would later feel guilty over.

He wished she wouldn't.

He knew she would.

So he simply held her, let her hit him, all the while wondering what else he should be doing.


	2. Chapter 2

"It's me, Ziva," Tony finally said in a loud whisper. "It's Tony. Please, Ziva. It's me."

He knew the second she realized who he was and where she was. The question of _who she was_ still screamed through her head, but she didn't expect him to hear it. Wouldn't want him to anyway.

"It's okay, Ziva. You're safe here." He paused a moment before laughing out loud. "Well, as safe it is to be here with me trying to catch a killer."

Her breath puffed warm against his bare skin as she laughed lightly. It turned to a sniffle, though, and she pulled away.

Tony wanted nothing more than to keep her wrapped up safely in his arms, but he also knew better than to trap her. So he used his voice instead of his arms to keep her close. "You're okay, Ziva. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I am not okay," she said tightly, and she couldn't have shocked him more if she had admitted to being knocked up—by Ducky. Her voice softened as she really looked at him. "And neither are you. Damn, Tony. You are bleeding."

Tony barely registered the sting in his lip, but her words had his hand moving up to touch the source of the warm blood he could suddenly feel dripping down his chin. "Don't worry about it," he said, shrugging. "Can't even feel it."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he saw the depth of the pain in them even as she asked teasingly, "Then how did you know it was your lip that is bleeding?"

He smiled and fought the twisting inside him at how wrong it felt. "You're getting good at this."

Her half-smile died on her lips as she continued to stare at the blood on his face. "I am going to get you some ice," she said, her tone daring him to protest. He also decided it might be better not to mention her bloody palms.

She returned so quickly it made him wonder when the last time he had called her "ninja chick" was—and why it had been so long. He raised an eyebrow at the pot she carried along with a towel and a baggie filled with ice. Then she turned the pot upside down and set it over the microphone just like McGee had done in their hotel room a lifetime ago. He winced, thinking about the blood and bruises and monster concussion he had incurred that time.

"Careful," he said, smiling. "Gibbs and McGee might think we're having too good a time in here."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it was the absolute wrong thing to say—and he suddenly knew the contents if not the details of her nightmare.

"I'm so sorry, Ziva," he whispered, the pain in his voice having nothing to do with his split lip.

"I should apologize to you," she said blankly, and he could practically see her gathering her defenses around her as she sat beside him on the bed and lifted the towel to his bleeding mouth. Her thigh brushed his, and she jerked at the contact but gritted her teeth and continued her gentle ministrations. He heard her whisper something harsh and foreign, and he instinctively knew she was cursing her shaking hands.

"I've got it," he said, reaching up to take the bloody towel.

She held it out of his reach. "I did the damage. At least let me fix it." She paused. "I can handle it."

The resolve in her voice was almost painful to hear. Tony took the towel from her trembling fingers. "I know you can," he said softly, staring directly into her suddenly glittering eyes. "But you don't always have to."

She looked stricken for a moment before grabbing the towel back and wrapping the ice in the cleanest corner of it and shoving it back into his hands.

"Which movie did you get that corny line from?" she asked caustically.

He blinked, momentarily speechless because of her sudden transformation.

"The ice. Your lip," she said, waving her hands at him and getting up to stare out into the predawn darkness. "It will keep the swelling down."

"I don't care," he said, starting to get up but finding himself stopped by her glare—but more by the fear in her eyes.

"I do," she said succinctly. She made a disgusted little sound. "I do not need Gibbs giving me a lecture for hurting you."

Tony laughed mirthlessly. "He's more likely to thank you for getting me to shut my big mouth."

She eyed him for a moment before saying softly, wistfully, "He will be angry with me." He barely heard her when she added, "He loves you like a son."

Tony heard her, though, and he blinked in shock before a wry smile crossed his face. He put the ice to his lip, pulled it away slightly, and then said, "That's sweet, Ziva. But not quite."

The look she gave him made his insides go colder than the ice in his hand. Her eyes were hard and dead as she lifted a shoulder and turned back to the window, the intensity making him wonder if she could see, catlike, through the darkness. "He left me in Israel. Not you."

Tony's every thought about her eyesight and his strange relationship with Gibbs slammed to a stop at that. The resulting mess was jumbled and mangled like a twenty-car pileup on the Beltway, and he couldn't manage to say a word for several moments. He jumped when a drop of freezing water dripped from the baggie and landed on his leg.

Later, he would blame its fall for his abrupt words.

"You blame Gibbs?" he said, and it was half a question and half an incredulous statement.

She whipped around, the fury in her eyes taking his breath. "I blame myself!"

He struggled to find something to say to that.

But she cut off anything he might have said. "I blame myself for asking him to choose between me and you. I should have known he would choose you. I am nothing to him, and you..."

She trailed off, the misery in her gaze visible in the moonlit room. Hell, it would have been visible even in pitch blackness.

Tony tossed the leaking baggie aside. "Ziva, I don't know what happened out—"

"So just shut up then," she hissed. Her tone was still angry when she asked, "Is your lip all right? You do not need stitches, do you?"

He looked confused, but he nodded anyway. "It's fine."

"Good," she said, snapping off the word crisply. "I am sorry for hitting you. And for ... freaking out. I am going back to sleep."

He was about to protest when she pulled the pot from the microphone, her dark eyes challenging him to say anything knowing both Gibbs and McGee could hear them. He shut his mouth carefully and got up, moving silently to toss the dripping baggie into the bathroom sink. He stood in the doorway, watching his partner stare at the ceiling for a long while before grabbing a pillow from the bed and sinking onto the hard floor.

He lay flat on his back, staring up at the same ceiling.

But all he could see was her flinch when he had come close enough to her to snatch up the pillow.

* * *

Tony awoke to toes in his ribs and a killer backache.

"You need to get up," Ziva said, her tone decidedly softer than the previous night.

Tony could feel his lip throbbing and had visions of Ziva's small fist colliding with his mouth, and he understood the change in tone. He managed to sit up without groaning at the pain and stiffness in his back, and he swallowed complaints about how much it sucked to get old. He knew his physical discomfort was nothing compared to the emotional agony Ziva had been carrying around since her captivity.

It scared him to realize how well she had hidden it, and it made him wonder just how guilty he should feel for not looking harder, for not digging deeper because he was terrified by what he might unearth.

"I'm up," he said, popping to his feet with an enthusiasm he didn't feel. "Want me to make you breakfast?"

Ziva blinked in surprise at his words. "No thank you," she said primly, before a big smile broke over her face. "I would like to be able to actually eat it."

Tony shrugged, wondering how they were going to get through the day without killing each other—or getting each other killed by the killer they were after. He sighed. "Your loss."

Looking in the mirror was more of an adventure than it ever should have been. Tony winced as he prodded his split lip and tried to keep his mouth as closed as possible while brushing his teeth so as not to reopen the shallow wound. He started to turn and jumped about a mile at Ziva, who was standing in the doorway, watching him intensely.

He recovered quickly, watching her reflection and giving her a lascivious grin that made his mouth hurt. "I'm gonna strip for a shower. You might not wanna stand there unless you want a show."

He turned completely around to look at her—and almost fell over at the naked lust he saw in her dark eyes. He flicked a glance into the bedroom and then flinched, realizing she might think he was offering something that he definitely wasn't. He was mostly worried about what she might say—and who might hear it.

But then her eyes went dead again.

"I doubt it would be much of a show," she said tiredly, as if summoning the energy to make fun of him were simply too much.

* * *

Tony and Ziva were in the car, headed off-base to meet up with Gibbs and McGee for an update. Ziva was driving, and Tony was trying not to puke up the omelet he had made that morning while Ziva had sat in the corner of the quaintly decorated kitchen and pouted.

Tony wasn't sure if her driving now was an attempt to make sure they weren't being followed or leftover anger, but he figured if it was the former and they were followed, they should arrest Mario Andretti for the murders—or at the very least for tailgating.

"I do not understand why you could not just let me go running this morning," Ziva said angrily while managing to stay on the road despite taking a hairpin turn at three times the recommended speed.

"I told you," Tony said, just as testily—both because he was running out of patience and because he was already fearing for his life and pissing off an ex-assassin didn't seem to add much danger, considering she was the driver trying to kill him. "We're baiting a killer and I'm not letting you out of my sight until we catch this sick son of a bitch."

She scoffed as she swung the car around a slow-moving vehicle—which was doing about ten miles an hour over the limit—and veered back into the right lane, avoiding a head-on collision with a bus by about a foot. "You were just afraid that you would not be able to keep up with me."

Tony pried his heart out of his throat just enough to speak. "No, Ziva," he said, both tempted and afraid to check his own pulse, "I am afraid that you are going to kill us before we get to the meet. And I am afraid that Gibbs will kill us both for even thinking about letting you trot around by yourself."

"Trot?" Ziva snorted delicately, and Tony could think of nothing but horses.

And his own impending death by vehicular manslaughter.

"I run, Tony," Ziva said, laughing without humor. "And you would not have kept up. You would have limped after me just like you limped out to the car this morning."

Tony bit his tongue to keep the scathing retort in. He knew she was still upset at having flipped out the night before, at having cried in front of him. They were a lot alike in that neither was good at dealing with letting real emotions, strong emotions like that show.

"I'm fine," was all he said.

She turned to look at him and he prayed to a God he wasn't sure he believed in that she would focus on the winding, four-lane undivided highway they were on. One of Tony's first cases with NCIS had involved a Marine who died while racing his buddy down this road, Virginia State Route 1. The Marine had been ahead of his Navy friend by about a quarter-mile when he lost control and slammed into one of the many trees on the side of the highway. It had taken Tony and Ducky nearly a half-hour to find the poor guy's head, and now, all Tony could think about was how ironic it would be if Ducky ended up searching for _his_ head on this same road.

Talk about full circle.

"You are sitting up perfectly straight over there," Ziva observed. "You only do that when you think Gibbs is behind you in the squad room and you are pretending to be working very hard. Or when you are in pain."

She added that last bit with a tinge of guilt, and Tony honestly had no idea what to say. Or what to do with her all-over-the-emotional-map moods.

But fortunately, they had reached the small, out of the way café.

Ziva surprised him by hitting the lock button on the doors, the gesture more symbolic than anything. He saw her trepidation and knew its origin.

"I won't say anything," he promised.

He got out of the car and wondered if he had just lied to his partner.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony saw the flash of anger in Gibbs' eyes the second they sat down at the table and he saw the damage to his lip. He wondered if he owed Ziva an apology. He was also wondering if Gibbs would leave it.

Until he opened his mouth.

"The hell happened to your face, DiNozzo?"

Tony felt Ziva tense up as she took her seat beside him so he grinned. "Walked into a door," Tony said, knowing Gibbs wouldn't believe it for a second. He could feel Ziva holding her breath, both of them knowing Gibbs had heard her screaming the previous night.

"You should be more careful," Gibbs said, but he was looking at Ziva when he said it.

She flushed and picked up her menu, studying it more intently than the meatloaf special warranted.

Tony kept his plastic grin in place and picked up his own menu. "Don't worry, Boss. I'm still pretty."

Gibbs' hand twitched like he wanted to give him an obligatory headslap but wouldn't in this public forum—but there was real worry in his blue eyes. And Tony knew it wasn't over his physical state.

A waitress came and took their orders and then McGee was off on what seemed to Tony an overly long explanation that he and Gibbs had seen nothing and he and Abby had found nothing on the base security tapes from the previous killings. He had found, however, that a clerk Tony had spotted watching him and Ziva a little too closely in the commissary had a record. Dustin Stone, 32 and single, had a domestic violence conviction in North Carolina.

"Where in North Carolina?" Tony asked, unsure of the origin of the dirty look Ziva was giving him.

McGee answered, "Surf City."

Tony raised an eyebrow at Gibbs, who was already nodding. "That's awfully close to Lejeune."

"Right," McGee said. "And he's not military. Never has been. But he also worked in the commissary at Lejeune. He transferred to Quantico a year ago."

"Any murders at Lejeune during his time there?" Tony asked, knowing McGee would have already thought to check. "Or attacks?"

McGee shook his head. "He was there for only a month. Only significant incident was a male Marine who got mugged on base. No rapes, murders or violence of any kind against women reported during that month."

Ziva shoved away from the table abruptly and excused herself to the ladies' room. McGee saw the looks exchanged between Tony and Gibbs, and he moved to get up.

But Tony waved him down. "You should stay. You're not a probie anymore, Probie."

Gibbs nodded and asked bluntly, "Do I need to pull her?"

Tony was already shaking his head. "No. I think she'll be fine as long as I stick to sleeping on the floor."

Gibbs studied him for a moment. "I heard what she was screaming at you."

Tony gave him a look. "I think we all know she wasn't screaming at me, Boss."

"You're baiting a murderer, DiNozzo," Gibbs said sharply. "You need a partner who has your back."

"Seriously, Tony," McGee agreed. "We know he goes after the husbands first."

"We'll be fine," Tony said, sneaking a glance over his shoulder to make sure his partner was still gone. "She went through hell in Africa, but she's still a highly trained operative. I'm not worried."

"Well I am worried," McGee said, shooting a glance at Gibbs, who he was sure agreed, too, but just wouldn't say it outright. "And I'm worried that you're not worried."

Tony arched an eyebrow at the junior agent. "You been hanging out with Abby a lot lately?"

McGee opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he would have said was cut off by Ziva's return.

"Have a nice chat about me?" she asked sweetly, seeing the waitress about to deliver their lunches.

But Gibbs was not one to be cowed by a stranger's presence. The woman was barely away from the table when Gibbs looked directly into Ziva's eyes and said, "Do you think this is funny, Agent David? I put you and DiNozzo under because you're two of my best agents and I thought you could handle it. If I'm wrong, tell me I'm wrong."

Ziva, Tony and McGee were all blinking in shock—but all for different reasons.

Ziva's eyes dropped to her hands knotted in her lap. "I can handle it."

"Good," Gibbs said, picking up his fork. "Because you two are going back to the house and not leaving the premises until tomorrow. Get some rest. You look like crap, both of you."

He chewed carefully, looking from one set of tired eyes to the other and getting twin nods in return. He swallowed, adding, "We've set the trap. Now all we have to do is wait for this bastard to take the bait."

* * *

Tony hauled himself out of the car and just barely stopped himself from putting a hand to his aching back. He let his spine go all slouchy, though, because he could feel Ziva's intense gaze on him.

"So what do you want to do all day?" he asked, trying to force lightness into his voice.

"Go over the case files again," she said, slamming the car door harder than was necessary. He told himself it was so no one eavesdropping would hear the words that would surely blow their cover. He felt a flash of unease and wasn't sure if it was from those thoughts or knowing that he had lied to Gibbs, at least partially. Maybe. He really wasn't sure.

"Gibbs said rest," Tony said, stopping on the stoop and speaking directly into her ear as she unlocked the front door to the two-story house. "You really wanna disobey a direct order?"

She didn't answer as she walked into the entryway. He sighed, dropping onto the couch and fighting a groan as the muscles in his back seized up upon meeting with the soft surface. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, willing away the pain and wondering why he was cursing his football-playing days when they had been some of the best years of his life.

"You are really hurting."

The soft words had his eyes popping open so fast it made him slightly dizzy. Ziva was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, watching him with sympathy in her dark eyes. He wasn't sure if it was her concern or the sheer intensity of it that made him shiver in the sun-warmed living room.

Her eyes softened even more as he winced while trying to sit up, and he wondered where all of her earlier anger had disappeared to.

He was about to insist that he was fine when she stood abruptly, moving toward the stairs and calling over her shoulder, "I will be right back."

He lay back and closed his eyes, wondering which version of her would return. More importantly, he wondered if the mood swings had ever been this pronounced or if it was just their constant contact over the past few days that made him aware of it—or had exacerbated it.

She bounced down the stairs a moment later but went straight to the kitchen, returning with a prescription pill bottle and a glass of water.

"Here," she said, holding out the orange vial. "They are a little old, but they are not yet out of date."

He took the bottle of Percocet and wondered where she had gotten it—until he saw the date on the label and remembered feeling the broken ribs in her side as she had hung limply between him and McGee on another continent the previous summer.

"Uh, Ziva," he said, knowing there was another team of agents monitoring them while Gibbs and McGee rested up for their night shift. "Aside from it being illegal to share controlled substances, do you really think this is a good idea?"

She laughed, the smile lighting her face and reminding him—as if he needed the reminder—of how beautiful she was. "Oh, do not be such a goodie three shoes, Tony."

"Two shoes," he corrected slowly, his mind struggling to keep up with her quicksilver moods.

She cocked her head to the side and nodded. "Well, yes, that does make much more sense than three shoes, I suppose. Although I have no idea what shoes have to do with being good."

"Me neither," he agreed, still looking at the pill bottle in his hand and fighting off images of his partner with a very sharp knife to her throat. The knife from Africa morphed into the knife from the hotel room during their roles as Canadian assassins, and the sudden shift made him wonder if he had taken a handful of the pills and forgotten. "But what I meant was I probably shouldn't because you know me and painkillers. I get kind of loopy."

She shrugged and dropped gracefully into an overstuffed chair that matched the leather sofa. "I do not mind. I would rather you be loopy than in pain."

He nodded, slowly again. And he shrugged and popped the top off the bottle, downing two of the little white pills and oddly wishing there was something Ziva could take to ease _her _pain. "I guess I can be our entertainment for the afternoon, then, since we have nothing else to do."

She smiled at him, her eyes lighting up again. "This is almost nice," she said, grinning. "I cannot remember the last free afternoon I got to spend doing nothing. Want to watch a movie?"

"Watching a movie is not doing nothing," he argued in a good-natured tone, his eyes closing again. "But it's a good idea. You pick. I'll just lay here."

" 'So I Married an Axe Murderer' is on," she said what seemed like a long time later. Tony wasn't sure. He was starting to float. "How appropriate."

"Mmmmmm," he murmured before giggling slightly.

"Oh my," she said, but he could hear her smile. "It has begun."

"It's only going to get worse," he said. "This is one of my favorite movies and it's really funny. I'll probably drive you nuts quoting half the lines."

"It is your afternoon off, too," she said simply. "Knock yourself up."

Tony spent the next few minutes choking on the water he was sipping and then explaining all the reasons that phrase was so very wrong—grammatically _and_ physically. Ziva had moved beside him to thump him on the back during his coughing fit and she moved to get up to return to her chair, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm.

"Stay?" he asked, adding a smile and a cheeky, "my lovely bride?"

She rolled her eyes but stayed next to him, getting into the movie and laughing at his spot-on mimicry of Mike Myers' Scottish accent. At some point, he found she had slid under his arm and was curled against his side, her dark curls resting on his shoulder. He tightened his arm around her slightly and felt her stiffen.

But then she laughed out loud at the movie and he couldn't help himself, quoting along. " 'Alright, give your mother a kiss, or I'll kick your teeth in.' "

Ziva got up to make popcorn and they half-watched the movie while throwing kernels at each other and giving each other good-natured ribbing about getting more practice on the firing range.

" 'You know, Scotland has its own martial arts. Yeah, it's called 'Fuck You,' " Tony quoted, drawing out the words so it sounded like "Feck yoooo." He continued, perfectly in time with the movie, "It's mostly just head butting and then kicking people when they're on the ground."

" 'I'm not kidding, that boy's head is like Sputnik; spherical but quite pointy at parts! Now that was offside, wasn't it? He'll be crying himself t' sleep t'night, on his huuuuuuuuuuge pilla.' "

Ziva was laughing hysterically, and Tony was having a ball, this time having no trouble remembering the last time he had had so much fun.

They spent the entire afternoon—and well into the evening—watching random movies, all comedies, and laughing until their cheeks hurt. Ziva had pressed more painkillers into Tony's hands at some point during the evening, along with a plate of something so delicious he found himself hoping there would be leftovers, and he was feeling nothing other than a lightness and relaxation he hadn't felt in years.

Ziva yawned as the current movie ended, and Tony saw that it was past 2300—not late, but not early either.

"How am I tired?" Ziva asked, echoing his thoughts. "We did not do a thing all day."

"Hey," Tony protested, mock angry. "I was working very hard to sell our covers all day."

She laughed. "Yes, that must be it." She studied his face, frowning for the first time in hours at the bruising around his split lip. "Call it an early night?"

He nodded, fully feeling the effects of the Percocet he had been munching like candy and suddenly wondering if that had been such a good idea. He sat up, not feeling any pain, and found Ziva watching him intently.

"I have your six, Tony," she said softly, making him wonder if Mossad taught mind-reading.

"I know."

He stood and stretched until his back popped loudly—and gruesomely, if Ziva's face was any indication. He raised an eyebrow at her as she made her way to the stairs. "Hmmmm?"

She stopped on the first step as he stood below her, her dark eyes on level with his green ones. "You should see a doctor."

Thoughts of Jeanne came flying at him from left field again, but he smiled anyway. He was a DiNozzo, after all. "Not a real big fan of them lately. Bad experience with one."

She watched him for a moment, refusing to move out of his way. He was worried their earlier lightness had vanished until she rolled her eyes and grinned. "Like you were a huge fan of them before."

He laughed and watched her turn, following her up the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **I think it's time for another warning that this piece of fiction deals with very mature themes—some of which could be triggers for some readers. If you even think you might be bothered by this, please turn back now. Also, I'm not a doctor, not a psychiatrist, and this is not a self-help book. I'm simply tackling a tough subject (that I feel the show glossed over) in the ways that I imagine it could play out. All characters belong to their respective owners.

* * *

They lay side-by-side an hour later, both wide awake and staring at the ceiling.

Tony had started to lie on the floor after finishing up in the bathroom, but Ziva had shaken her head at him and motioned him to join her. He agreed, wordlessly and reluctantly, and had settled in as far from her small body as was possible.

But still they lay awake.

Finally, Ziva sat up, her voice somewhat rough when she said, "I guess I am not tired. I think I will go take a hot bath."

"Mmmmm. Good thinking," Tony said, deliberately murmuring the words and hoping she would think he was not having the same trouble sleeping as she was.

And then he found he wasn't. He tried not to think about what it meant that he drifted off to dream almost immediately after she left.

A nightmare complete with bathwater clouded not with bubbles but with blood jerked him awake and Tony stifled a gasp, glancing to his left to see if Ziva had returned. He found her side of the bed empty and fought a panic he wasn't sure stemmed from the nightmare or something else. He started to get up to search the house, but he stopped when he saw the light still sliding from under the bathroom door.

So he lay there for a long time, fighting the unsettled feeling that had started like a seed in his belly and grown until its offshoots were choking his throat. Long-buried memories peppered with images from the nightmare were floating near the surface, and Tony finally couldn't take it anymore.

He got up with a wince and a grudging thought that maybe Ziva was right about seeing a doctor. He stopped outside the door, fully expecting to hear her yell at him to go away.

But he was greeted with only silence.

"Ziva?"

There was not even a splash in answer.

He swallowed his nausea along with the memories that were still fresh from the nightmare and called her name again, knowing he sounded a bit strangled by the vines of worry wrapping tough tendrils around his throat.

"Ziva!" he barked, borrowing the tone from Gibbs as he lifted a hand to knock hard on the door.

He hadn't noticed it wasn't quite closed, and it swung inward, making Tony wonder if Ziva had left it open on purpose and why she would do that.

And then he stopped wondering anything.

Ziva stood in the middle of the room, stark naked and dripping wet—and blinking as if she had been awakened by his voice and had popped to her feet in surprise. Tony just stood in the doorway, stunned speechless.

And it was not by her beauty.

He had known she had a great body. He knew she ran and watched what she ate and did all of those things necessary to be able to strut around in a world-class body.

He had _not_ known, however, that she had been taking a razor blade to that beautiful form.

Thin red lines stood out on her left thigh, and her hands came up quickly to cover them, leaving her more private parts on full display. Tony shook off his shock and grabbed a robe off the back of the door. He held it out to her, not wanting to scare her by draping it over her shoulders. But she didn't move to take it, and he covered her, realizing she was too ashamed to move her hands from the self-inflicted wounds.

Ziva's mouth was slightly open, but there were no words. Tony gently put an arm around her shoulders and led her back into the bedroom, feeling her shake as she sat woodenly on the side of the bed. He released her and started to move away, but her small hand landed on his arm, her dark eyes locking with his.

He could read only about half the emotions raging in those eyes, but he knew whatever she was about to say didn't need to be heard by Gibbs and McGee, who were back at their listening posts. He lifted a finger and pressed it to her lips, shaking his head slightly and pointing to the microphone.

He knew the other agents had night vision on them, but he didn't care. He wasn't really thinking about what Gibbs would think or what McGee would say. He wasn't really thinking about either of their careers, or their undercover op.

All he could think about were those little red lines—and the little white ones that told him far more than he wanted to know.

He leaned closer until he was speaking directly into her ear. He was so close he could smell the lavender shampoo on the wet tendrils brushing his cheek.

"Don't say a word yet."

He wasn't sure if the little twitch she gave was an answer or a shiver, but he figured he had to go with it. Knowing full well Gibbs would be pissed—and quite likely pull both of them from the assignment—he pulled her to her feet and pulled her gently back toward the bathroom, the only room in the house that wasn't covered with microphones or cameras.

Leading Ziva to sit down on the side of the tub, Tony moved to kneel in front of his partner. He took her trembling hands into his and whispered, trying not to plead, "Talk to me, Ziva."

"I…" she began, pulling her hands from his and tucking them tightly around herself. "There is really nothing to say. You saw everything."

He saw the shame in her eyes and knew it wasn't from being naked in front of her partner. He shivered at the thought of those cuts and he asked, "Is that all of it?"

"Is it not enough?" she asked, but her voice was blank.

He flinched. "I mean, have you been drinking? Doing other things to cope with what happened to you?"

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say because he saw the anger rise in her eyes. "Just because you got wasted every night wallowing in your guilt over Jenny does not mean I would need to."

He sat back on his heels before sliding down the bathroom cabinets and sitting on the damp floor. He still couldn't drink Scotch without thinking about Jenny lying in a pool of her own blood, all alone as she faced down a death squad in that dusty diner, and the memory hurt because the guilt was still there. But he shrugged it off. This wasn't about his pain or his guilt.

"There are people who can help you, Ziva," he said, watching her bristle at the suggestion. He knew she would have had no problems shrugging off the agency shrinks. The woman was trained by Mossad; some geeky overachiever from Harvard didn't stand a chance.

"I need no shrink, as you call them," she said tightly. "I can take care of myself."

He hesitated, then decided it was better to say it and have her hit him than to agree with her on that admirable, sad, completely wrong statement. "That's not taking care of yourself, Ziva. That's hurting yourself in one way to alleviate a different kind of pain," he said, his voice soft. He looked at her and noticed thin stripes of blood had seeped through the white terrycloth robe. He moved his eyes back up to her face and took a breath, adding firmly, "You need help."

Her jaw went so tight he could practically hear her teeth grinding, but then she smiled softly, her hand suddenly at the belt of the robe.

"You can help me."

Before he even registered the words or the heat in her eyes, she was on the floor, kneeling between his knees with her mouth on his. The robe had fallen open and he could feel her warm, damp body moistening his t-shirt as she plundered his mouth with her tongue.

The pressure made his split lip hurt.

The desperation in her kiss made his heart hurt worse.

He realized his hands were pressed firmly to the floor on either side of where he sat to keep from reaching up and exploring the bare skin hovering over his body. He reached up and cupped her face in his hand, gently putting space between them.

He could feel her minty breath puffing out as she stared into his eyes.

"Ziva, please. You don't want this."

His voice seemed to break some kind of spell, and she pulled back, curling against the side of the tub, lavender-scented bathwater long forgotten. She pulled her knees up and the robe tightly around her. There was barely a foot between their bodies, but her expression was so closed she might well have been back in Israel.

"No," she said, averted eyes coming up to meet his. "You just do not want me."

"Ziva," he said, shaking his head slightly. He was glad Ziva had insisted on not wiring the bathroom—and then suddenly sick when he realized why. He shoved aside those thoughts. "I've always wanted you."

She blinked as if shocked by that. As if she didn't remember all of their flirting, their teasing. But then she smiled sadly. "So why did you never act on it? If you wanted me so badly."

He weighed his words, wondering how much of the truth he should give her—wondering if he even knew the truth himself. Considering he would give her just about anything to ease her suffering, he said, "Rule No. 12."

She just gave him a look. "And being with me would go against Gibbs' wishes," she said dully, the look in her eyes patronizing. "And we cannot have that, can we?"

Tony bit back everything he wanted to say to that: that Gibbs had his rules for a reason; that Gibbs was their supervisor, like it or not; that Gibbs had been there for him when he had really needed someone.

"You remember Paula Cassidy, right?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, as if she remembered everything about the woman—everything about Tony's easy familiarity with the pretty female agent. She nodded.

He looked away, making up his mind, and then said, "When she and I first met, there was a spark between us. A lot like there was between us. And Gibbs saw it." He paused, feeling his throat tighten as he recalled dancing with Paula in Cuba so long ago. He forcibly shoved away visions of what had been left of her body—a body he had touched, held, made love to—after that explosion. "And then he called me on it."

Ziva rolled her eyes as if to say she was less than surprised by that.

"Being Gibbs, he wasn't exactly nice about it, either. I was upset and angry at the time, but then Kate later told me that Gibbs told her that romance between agents never works out." Tony stopped, not even remotely surprised that Kate could still haunt him, still hurt him. He was never quite sure why, but talking about Kate to Ziva had always felt like some sort of betrayal, and he usually avoided it at all costs. "He was trying to protect me."

Ziva's eyes hardened, and Tony realized bringing up that fact probably wasn't the greatest idea when Ziva obviously was hurt that Gibbs had chosen him in Israel, that Gibbs hadn't been there to protect her.

But then she said, "And you think I need protecting?" She scoffed. "From you?"

He sighed. "Do you really think we would be good together, Ziva?"

That seemed to take her by surprise, but then she lifted a shoulder. "I had fun today."

"So did I," Tony said, trying not to shift uncomfortably on the hard floor—and trying not to think too hard about the lightning-quick shifts in her moods. "But I mean long-term. Day after day. I would drive you insane."

She didn't speak so he admitted softly, "I'd probably cheat on you. I'm terrible at commitment."

She still didn't say anything to that so he tried for humor. "And then you'd kill me if you ever found out. And then Gibbs would be down two agents, take his anger out on poor McGeek and kill him too. See? Not so good."

She cracked a smile, but it was nowhere near happy. "You do not have to do this, Tony. You can just tell me you do not want me. I am a big girl. I can handle it." She paused, closing her eyes as if to stop tears. She shrugged again. "I do not blame you. Who would want me? I am damaged."

"Don't," he said, surprising them both with his sharpness. "You are not damaged. What happened to you was unspeakable, Ziva, but it didn't change who you are."

She regarded him with those sad eyes again, and he suddenly wondered if that was true.

But he continued anyway. "You're still the strongest person I know. You're still someone who has been through all kinds of hell and still finds a way to smile." He gave her a smile of his own. "You're still my crazy ninja-chick."

She stared for so long that he wondered what he would do if she simply stopped talking altogether. But then she was moving, quickly enough to be true to her nickname, and he found her suddenly naked on his lap, the blood-flecked robe tossed aside and her lips pressed to his before he could even say a word.

Just as his brain registered what was happening—which was a split-second after another part of his body registered her soft weight—she pulled back, her eyes hopeful.

"So you do still want me," she said, and it was half-question, half-statement.

He was stunned and couldn't have answered even if he had wanted to. Unfortunately, his body answered for him, and she grinned, kissing him hard again as her hand slid down, slipping into his boxers and gripping him firmly in her damp hand. His whole body jerked at the contact and he cursed the little voice in his head that reminded him it had been a while since a beautiful woman he been straddling him. He realized his hands were still pressed to the floor and he willed them to stay there even as she sucked on his lip and stroked him with long, lazy movements of her obviously skilled hand.

_Ziva, please, _he thought. _You really don't want this._

He was just trying to open his mouth enough to speak when she made a frightened little gasping noise and shoved herself off him. He sat there, breathing hard and watching her spit into the sink. He raised a hand to his mouth and realized her desperate kisses had reopened the wound in his lip and what she was now spitting into that sink was his blood. He realized she was sobbing silently and shaking with something that definitely was not desire, and all of the implications of her reaction to tasting his blood hit him like a freight train. His sorrow for her was like a physical ache in his chest, and he barely felt the muscles seizing up in his back as he stood, approaching her as he would a venomous snake.

"Ziva," he said softly, firmly, hoping to call her out of her waking nightmare.

He watched as she scooped water into her mouth and spit the pinkish liquid back into the sink. She splashed more water on her face, the droplets mixing with the tears until he couldn't distinguish the two, and then she picked up a towel to dry her face.

It wasn't working.

He stayed as silent as the tears streaming down her pale cheeks as he watched her, wondering what the hell he was going to do. Besides telling Gibbs she needed to be pulled from the assignment. She turned so quickly that he was ridiculously afraid she had heard his thoughts, but then she was in his arms, crying against his shoulder. It broke his heart to think that someone could be hurt so badly that she learned to sob without making a sound.

He put his arms around her, holding her tightly and wishing he could make it all go away. He wasn't in love with her, didn't want to marry her or watch their kids grow up.

But still he loved her.

Just as Kate had been like a little sister, Ziva was his family. He tried not to think about all of the reasons why he needed substitutes to fill that hole in his life. He revised his thoughts, though, as he fought his body's natural reaction to a very female form pressed against him. Ziva was more like an infuriatingly sexy cousin, flirting mercilessly but knowing nothing would ever come of it. At least Tony had thought they felt the same way—until her hands had been in his pants, offering him something that his body obviously thought he wanted.

A sudden, sharp pain made him jerk as the muscles spasmed in his back. The shifting of his body had a part of him suddenly pressed hard against a much softer part of her.

Ziva drew back, shoving out of his arms with an animal cry of rage. Before Tony could even start to apologize, he saw the flash of the razor blade in her hand. He held his hands up, palms outward in a classic position of surrender, but he didn't know if it would do any good. Her eyes were flashing with a rage so intense he knew she wasn't seeing him.

His heart broke all over again for what she had gone through—what he couldn't even begin to imagine trying to endure. That heart was also crammed somewhere up in his throat as he realized she was just as likely to cut herself accidentally in an attack as she was to slice him. He thought briefly about bolting, knowing he was closer to the door.

But those bleeding wounds on her thigh made him stay.

He suddenly wished they had stayed in the bedroom. Gibbs and McGee would no doubt have stormed the place by now. And that made Tony glad they hadn't. Ziva was in enough pain without having to deal with her co-workers witnessing her breakdown.

"Ziva, please," he said. "It's me. It's Tony, and I'm not going to hurt you. Can you hear me?"

His soft words were like flipping a switch, and her eyes suddenly focused on him and he knew she was back to seeing reality instead of her worst nightmares come back to life. She seemed to realize she had the blade in her hand, and she set it aside, plucking the robe from the floor and covering herself. She did it all without a hint of shame and he knew she had found her game face again.

He wished she hadn't.

"You are going to tell Gibbs to pull me from this op, yes?" she said, her voice dull.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out the breath he had been holding. "I have to," he said, hoping it wouldn't send her into another rage.

She simply nodded.

He waited, but she did not speak.

"Ziva? You're okay with that?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"You need someone here to watch your back," she said, lifting a shoulder. "And now you cannot trust me to do that."

"I trust you with my life, Ziva," he said immediately. "I wouldn't be here in the first place if I didn't."

She laughed without humor. "But that was before you knew how crazy I am."

"You're not crazy, Ziva. You went through hell in Africa, but I don't think you're crazy."

She eyed him, shaking her head with disgust. "You keep saying that. And you know what? You do _not_ know what happened out there. You do not know about them interrogating me, blasting my religion, hitting me." She stopped and looked him dead in the eyes. "You do not know about them holding me down and raping me. So many times, so many different men that after a while I started keeping track of them and giving them names so it would not feel like such a … such a fucking violation."

He tried to keep his face impassive, but he knew the sympathetic pain was showing in his eyes. He cursed himself, for all the clichéd reasons of hating his maleness, but also because he had never felt so helpless in all his life, had never felt so completely inept.

She continued, "So now you will tell Gibbs all of that, and I will lose my job."

He gaped at her, feeling a hint of anger that she would think he would repeat something so painful, so horrible. "I would never tell him what you told me."

She lifted a disinterested shoulder. "But you will tell him that I cannot do my job."

"Ziva. I have to. It's for your own safety. Yeah, we sat around and watched movies all day, but our real work is catching a killer. Since the nights are the hardest for you, I don't think this is a good idea."

She didn't speak, and he could tell she wanted to leave the small confines of the bathroom, the air thick not with steam from her bath but with the tension between the two agents.

"I don't have a choice," he said, feeling more miserable than he had in a long time.

Her eyes flicked up to his. "Sure you do. You are simply choosing to rat me out." She held up a hand to stop his response and her eyes were suddenly angry. "So go ahead. Do it. And then I will have no job. McGee and Abby and Gibbs will want nothing to do with me because I am damaged goods. And I have no family because they betrayed me. And I cannot go home because I renounced my country thinking it was for the best. So tell Gibbs, Tony. And then I will get a job as a secretary or something. And it will be fine until one day when my boss grabs my ass and I will be lost in the memories of those pigs with their dirty hands on me. And my Mossad training will kick in and I will likely kill the man. And then I will probably kill myself, because really? What will I have to live for?"

He was reeling, trying to take in that bleak premonition and find ways to refute it.

She scoffed at him. "I really did not think I would have to explain to you, of all people, that my job is my life, Tony. But go ahead and take it from me," she said, shrugging. "It will be you who has to live with the consequences."

She smiled darkly.

"Not me."


	5. Chapter 5

Tony didn't leave the bathroom that night. Nor did he sleep. He spent most of the time hoping Ziva wasn't making good on her promise and the rest trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do. He knew Gibbs would question him on why he had spent the night in the bathroom, but Tony also knew he could deflect with a lie about being sick.

And for once in his life, he was fairly certain deflecting was _not_ the way to go.

He stopped short around five in the morning, wondering why he hadn't followed Ziva when she left to make sure she didn't follow through on her threats. He told himself it was because he believed them to be only threats. He didn't think she would really kill herself.

He didn't want to think it.

He knew Ziva was just manipulating him into not telling Gibbs the truth. At least, he wanted to believe that.

He knew he should tell Gibbs she was unfit for duty. If anything were to happen to her because he was too scared she might actually harm herself, he wouldn't be able to live with the guilt. He was already haunted by too many ghosts to add her lovely corpse to their rotting ranks.

So he shouldn't tell Gibbs, then, right?

His thoughts stayed jumbled as he took a quick shower and dressed in the empty bedroom. He met Ziva downstairs and they left for the meeting place with Gibbs and McGee, this time at a small coffee shop in Dumfries. They did not speak, and they kept carefully away from making eye contact.

But both smiled brightly as they left the house.

Ziva said not a word the entire way there—and had let Tony drive, which spoke the volumes she refused to say. He knew she thought he was going to immediately rat her out to Gibbs. He still wasn't sure, even as they walked into the shop and took seats across from Gibbs and McGee.

Tony held statue-still as Gibbs' sharp eyes roamed his tired face. Tony knew he looked like he hadn't slept a wink the night before—because he hadn't. And he knew Gibbs would see it.

"So much for getting rest," Gibbs said sourly, sipping his coffee and watching his agents' reactions.

Ziva stiffened and McGee looked like he wanted to get up and leave just to escape the choking tension. Tony just said, "Hard to sleep when you know a psycho might be staking you out."

"No windows in that bathroom," Gibbs commented.

Tony and Ziva both went red at about the same time. Tony waited, a little disgusted himself that he was letting Ziva take the lead. He was surprised by her words.

"Tony was sick last night," she said, gazing straight into Gibbs' blue eyes without a hint of worry showing in her dark ones. "He spent most of the night throwing up."

Tony pulled a smile from thin air. "I think she's trying to kill me with her cooking, Boss."

Gibbs didn't buy it. Tony saw that McGee didn't, either.

He also saw that Ziva was apparently pulling out her best acting skills as she sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. "If I were trying to kill you, Tony, there are much better ways."

Tony watched Gibbs' eyes harden fractionally just as a shudder ran down his own spine. He found Gibbs staring as though trying to poke holes in him, and Tony fought the urge to look away. "I'm fine now," Tony said, and it sounded lame even to his own ears.

Gibbs jerked his chin toward Tony's mouth. "That lip isn't healing," he said, his mild tone a sharp contrast to the fire in his eyes. "You need stitches?"

Tony shook his head, fighting the urge to blurt the truth to the entire table—the entire coffee shop. "It's fine. All the puking didn't help it any."

Tony questioned his eyesight as he thought he saw a flash of appreciation in Gibbs' eyes, but he quickly dismissed it. Gibbs hated being lied to and he wasn't about to go complimenting Tony on his skills anytime soon.

"Did you find out any more about our mystery man, Dustin Stone?" Ziva asked, signaling loud and clear to Tony that she wasn't about to volunteer any information about last night and it was up to him if he dared tell Gibbs what really happened.

McGee shook his head, aware of the daggers flying between his teammates but unsure of their origin. He wasn't a green probie anymore, but Tony and Ziva's relationship had always left him slightly mystified. He wasn't unconvinced that they didn't often feel the same way.

"I talked to Stone's last girlfriend," McGee said. "She said she broke it off with him because he got violent with her one night. She packed up right then and there and left. Hasn't seen him since."

"Smart girl," Ziva said, but her voice was tight.

All Tony could think about was her admitting her own beatings to him the previous night. He gave his head a slight shake to clear the thoughts and focus. "Any luck getting the other possible targets off the base?"

The team had found four couples who matched the descriptions of the victims, Marines with Middle Eastern wives. There were many, many more couples of mixed nationalities, but so far the killer had been ignoring the others so the team was, too, for now.

Gibbs sipped his coffee. "Got one Marine transferred to San Diego this morning."

McGee said, "He had the most contact with Stone because he oversaw the commissary. Which we were thinking might put him in the most danger." He paused. "Or it could make him the safest if Stone is smart enough not to kill someone close to him."

Tony frowned thoughtfully and asked McGee, "How did you decide?"

Gibbs answered for his young agent, his eyes flicking from Tony to Ziva and back again. "It was a judgment call."

McGee looked a little unsettled by the rock-hard tone, but he continued, "The Marine didn't like it, but once we told him why, he got with the program really quick."

"And the others?" Ziva asked, managing to sound casual despite Gibbs' icy eyes on her.

Gibbs shook his head. "Too risky to send them all off and leave just you two. Stone, if he even is our killer, might not be the smartest, but he hasn't left a shred of evidence so I'm not about to underestimate him."

"He'd see the trap," Tony agreed, fiddling with the tablecloth. "What do we do now?"

"Keep being visible," Gibbs answered. "I've got other agents keeping eyes on the other couples."

McGee nodded. "I found out from Stone's girlfriend that he likes rugby, and he used to play near Lejeune. There's a match today between Quantico and a team from the District. You two should go. Maybe try to make a scene."

Tony grinned, feeling the tug in his lip. "That could be difficult, McChessClub. Rugby spectators are a generally wild bunch. One time, while I at Ohio State—"

"Think of something, then," Gibbs cut him off. He saw the flash in Tony's eyes and rolled his own. "And stop hanging around Ducky. His storytelling is rubbing off."

* * *

Tony stood in the bathroom of the coffee shop, studying his tired face in the mirror and wondering when he had stopped being able to pull all-nighters without looking like death in the morning. He turned to leave, only to find himself face-to-face with Gibbs.

"Yeah, DiNozzo, you look like shit."

Tony smiled. "And here I thought I was having a good hair day."

The corner of Gibbs' mouth quirked upward, but his words obliterated any trace of a smile. "You trying to get yourself killed?"

"Careful," Tony said, still smiling. "Someone might start thinking you actually like me, Boss."

Tony had barely gotten the sentence out when Gibbs was on him, shoving him hard against the cracked counter. "What the hell is the matter with you two?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet.

Tony was shocked to realize Gibbs actually sounded a bit confused. He was even more surprised when his boss continued unprompted.

"I thought you could handle this," Gibbs said, meaning both of his agents but seeing Tony flinch anyway. "You two are acting like a couple of horny teenagers playing house."

Tony just gaped, too stunned to correct him.

Gibbs still wasn't done. "I get it. It's dangerous and you both are stuck there together, playing happy couple."

A sudden flash of the looks shared between Gibbs and Jenny flicked through Tony's head. He remembered too his words to Ziva after Jenny's death. _"It's inevitable," he had said. "Nothing is inevitable," she had returned. _Looking at Gibbs now, Tony thought his boss might take his side in that particular argument.

"I should pull you both," Gibbs was saying, pulling Tony back into the present with a jolt. He felt a flare of hope that Gibbs would use this as a reason to do just that—and Tony wouldn't have to rat on Ziva. He found himself planning discreet ways to get her the help she needed.

"But I won't," Gibbs said. Tony almost asked him if he was serious, but Gibbs just continued, "We've got time invested in this, and I can't put another couple in without tipping off this dirtbag."

Gibbs looked his agent in the eyes. "Can you handle this, Tony?"

Tony nodded without hesitation. "I've got this, Boss."

_Please, please don't ask if Ziva can handle this. Please, Gibbs, _Tony thought wildly.

But Gibbs just reached up, taking Tony by the jaw and tilting his face up to the light while studying the split lip. "So did she hit you again or were you two just playing rough?"

Tony blushed so hard he wondered if Gibbs could feel the heat in his skin, and he tried to look away while scrambling for a plausible lie.

But Gibbs just stepped back and shook his head. "I don't wanna know."

They stared at each other for a moment, Tony wondering why he wasn't saying exactly what he needed to say. It hit him that Gibbs hadn't questioned his decision yesterday that pulling Ziva wasn't necessary, and the trust Gibbs had in him suddenly scared him. Because he knew he was betraying that trust by staying silent. He should just spill to Gibbs and let him handle it. But then images of those thin red lines popped into his head—only to be overtaken by images of Ziva taking that razor blade to her wrists.

Tony wasn't sure what made him suddenly ask, "So how pissed at me are you, Boss? Just a little, right?"

There were moments when Gibbs could see straight through all of Tony's defenses. They were often moments Gibbs wished he couldn't. Right now, seeing past the false bravado and straight into the heart of Tony's burning need for his approval, Gibbs felt like a voyeur. There were times when Gibbs wished Tony were simply another agent and that he didn't know exactly why the younger man was looking at him with that mixture of fear and sadness and hope.

"I'm human, too, you know," Gibbs said softly. He forced his tone stern. "Just don't forget why you two are in that house. We set a trap this guy won't be able to ignore."

Tony just frowned, wondering when Gibbs' absolution had started meaning this much to him—or if it had always been that way.

"Watch your back on this, Tony," Gibbs said, and Tony didn't miss that it was Gibbs' second use of his first name in less than five minutes. "And Ziva's. You both…" He trailed off and looked uncomfortable.

_If he says "mean a lot to me" or something like that, I'm going to ask for some ID,_ Tony thought.

But then Gibbs finished gruffly, "Are good agents. I'd hate to have to break in two new ones."

Tony tried to smile. "Probie would be happy to get my job. My title. My desk."

Gibbs frowned at him. "Not if he gets 'em because you're dead, DiNozzo. Just watch your damn backs and don't make me regret trusting you."

* * *

McGee and Ziva were laughing when Tony and Gibbs returned to the table. The genuine smile that lingered on Ziva's face made Tony wonder if he had imagined everything. A flick of his tongue over his injured lip had him questioning his judgment rather than his sanity, though.

He started to pull out a chair, but Gibbs waved him off. "Go wait outside. I need a word with your partner."

Only Tony's extensive undercover experience kept him from flinching.

McGee nodded and stood, too, following Tony out of the coffee shop.

Gibbs found Ziva looking at him expectantly, and he was surprised to find even more dread in her eyes than had been in Tony's. He got right to the point.

"So how bad is Tony's back?"

Gibbs could see from her reaction that that was not the question she had been expecting. It only further cemented his belief that there was more to story than the agents were revealing, and it made sense that Ziva would cover for Tony over his bad back just as Tony had covered for her over her outburst. He was sure they were also sleeping together, but that was another matter entirely that he didn't want to dwell on—because it only brought up painful memories of him and Jenny several continents away and long ago.

He didn't wait for an answer. He just said, "Do us all a favor and don't feed him any more painkillers. If he's hurting that bad, then he should see a doctor."

Ziva simply nodded. "Yes, Gibbs. Understood. It was an error in judgment and it will not happen again."

Gibbs was tempted to ask if there was anything else she wanted to add, but he figured she had been expecting a lecture on Rule 12. It was a lecture he wasn't about to give. Gibbs was many things, but he didn't consider himself a hypocrite. So he just waved her off and watched her go, fighting the feeling that he was still missing something.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony and Ziva got in the car, their closing doors sounding like one because of their synchronized movements. They each turned and spoke at the same time, too.

"What did he say to you?"

They both laughed, glad to be away from the tension in the coffee shop. Ziva said, "You first."

"He thinks we're sleeping together."

Ziva nodded. "Yes, I kind of figured that." She flicked a glance at her partner's carefully slouched posture. "He wanted to know how bad your back is. And he cut you off on the painkillers."

Tony winced. "He's right about that. It wasn't exactly smart."

The sentence hung as Ziva flew out of the parking lot and headed back toward base. They both were thinking about other decisions they had made that weren't exactly smart, either, but neither spoke until they were headed through the main gate.

"So we are going to watch rugby?" Ziva asked, checking herself out in the mirror. "Am I dressed properly?"

Tony's eyes roamed over his partner's jeans and loose-fitted dark green silk tank top. "People might stare. But it's because you look amazing," he said, wondering where the words had come from. He was mostly trying not to think about picking up the phone, calling Gibbs and telling him everything. But again those blades slashed through his mind, effectively cutting off the thoughts.

She looked uncomfortable, too, for a moment but shrugged it off easily. "Do you think Stone will be at the game?"

"Match," Tony corrected. "Rugby works on a whole different set of terms. A game is a match, a field is a pitch, cleats are called boots. I'm surprised you don't know more about it since rugby's a more popular international sport than an American one. It's kind of a regional thing here. Although the inclusion of 7s rugby in the Olympics might change that."

Tony stopped rambling and noticed the faraway look in Ziva's eyes. She said softly, "I did not have much time for sports in my youth." She glanced at him as they found the field from McGee's directions and pulled into the parking lot. "How do you know so much about it?"

Tony just grinned at her. "Phys ed major, remember?"

She smiled back and got out of the car, taking in the striped jerseys of the DC players and the green and gold ones of the Quantico team as the groups stood in wide circles and stretched in synchrony. They walked through the grass toward the simple metal bleachers but stopped halfway as a roaring came from the south end of the field.

The pair turned and watched a huge C130 do what looked impossible and lift off from the nearby airstrip. The monstrous plane looked close enough to touch as it gained altitude over the field, and the entire Quantico team stopped and paused, holding salutes until the plane had lumbered off into the skies.

After the roaring subsided, Tony watched the plane fly away and said, "Last time I was in one of those…" He trailed off, remembering too late that it was not a pleasant memory for Ziva—or himself. His broken arm had throbbed mercilessly in time with the huge, thrumming engines, but that wasn't the most painful part of the long journey. It had been both eye-opening and stunningly difficult to watch Gibbs across the cargo hold as his boss had fought not to show the emotions leaving Ziva behind had obviously evoked. It was the first time Tony had seen Gibbs not sleep through a plane ride.

"Hmmm?" Ziva asked, putting a hand on his arm. He noted it was the one that had been broken by her dead lover and wondered if she noticed, too.

He wasn't sure if it was a warning or an invitation to continue, so he just smiled down at her and said, "I was wondering how I was going to get through the days with only a grumpy Gibbs and McGeek for company."

She stopped short and turned, looking straight up into his green eyes. She reached up and laid a gentle hand on his cheek before kissing him firmly on the lips.

He wasn't sure if she was selling their cover until she spoke softly.

"Thank you," she breathed so only they could hear her.

He wrapped his arms around her, letting her bury her face into his neck while she regained her composure. When the slight trembling had left her shoulders, he gave her a big grin and said, "Hop on. Your heels are sinking in this wet grass."

She rolled her eyes and obeyed the order, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders. She shivered a little in the warm summer sun as his big hands settled on her thighs to support her weight as he gave her a piggyback ride the rest of the way to the field.

Just as they neared the bleachers, packed with friends, girlfriends, wives and children of varying ages, Tony said loudly, "We have _got_ to stop feeding you, Baby. You weigh a ton!"

He deposited her smoothly onto the grass and she swatted him playfully. "Perhaps you should just head to the gym more often," she teased, feeling his hands' steady pressure on her shoulders and knowing he was holding her in place so she could scan the bleachers for Stone.

She found him easily—because he was staring straight at them. Ziva took Tony's arm and they sat in the bottom row, which was the only available place. Ziva could tell Tony wanted to be able to watch Stone just as she did, but they settled in and played their parts, knowing it was the best they could do.

Ziva turned a bright smile on Tony, looking up at him adoringly. "So, Sweetie, tell me all about rugby, will you?"

Tony could feel their suspect's eyes on them so he ducked down and planted a kiss on Ziva's lips. "Anything for you, Love."

So Tony chattered on for the first half of the match, feeling more like he was on a date than at work. At halftime, he got up and excused himself to the portajohn far from the field. He knew Ziva was safe in the crowd, and he wanted to be able to study Stone on his way back—both his reactions to Ziva and to the elegantly violent sport they were watching.

Ziva watched him go, looking down to find a small, dirty hand on her knee.

"Hi," the young boy said, grinning happily up at her.

"Well hello," Ziva said back just as the child's mother, who was sitting next to Ziva, let out a gasp.

"Jamie!" the woman cried, taking her son's hand and looking apologetically at Ziva. "I'm so sorry."

Ziva just smiled. "It is no problem. He is adorable."

The woman smiled. "And grubby," she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry about your pants."

Ziva brushed the dirt off with her left hand and held out her right. "Really, no big deal. I am Ziva Newsome."

The woman shook her hand. "Danielle Cunningham. Nice to meet you." She glanced off to where Tony was walking across the field. "Your husband?"

"Yes," Ziva said, nodding and wishing she could see Stone's face. But he was too far behind her and she couldn't chance turning to look without being obvious. "Tony. We just moved onto the base."

"You make a very stunning couple," Danielle said, looking slightly wistful. She was blonde and pretty so Ziva knew their looks weren't the subject of her envy even before she continued, "My husband Jack is in Iraq. I miss the hell out of that boy."

Ziva smiled sympathetically. "I am sorry. But little Jamie keeps you company, no?"

Danielle grinned, watching the boy make artwork in the dirt with his fingers as paintbrushes. "Oh, yeah. He keeps me plenty busy." She turned back to Ziva. "May I ask where you're from? Your accent is lovely."

"I am Iraqi," Ziva lied smoothly.

Danielle's gray-blue eyes darkened fractionally, but then Ziva saw that they were filled with sympathy. "Is your family still there?" At Ziva's nod, she said, "Then I pray for their safety. War is, as they say, hell."

"It is," Ziva said, glancing at the field. "I hope we were not disturbing you. Tony can be a bit… animated with his descriptions."

Danielle shook her head. "We're rugby people. Not exactly the most quiet bunch." As if on cue, the DC team broke into a rowdy cheer at the end of the half. "Jack plays when he's here. I think I come to the games as much to see the other players and their families as much as out of routine. Rugby is a lot like the Corps. These people are my family."

Ziva couldn't help thinking about how that was true for her team, as well.

But then Danielle was asking, "Does Tony play?"

"Ah, no," Ziva said, watching a particularly violent tackle after the kickoff on the field. "He has a bad back."

"That's too bad, but don't let that stop you from coming out to watch," Danielle said warmly. "This really is a great bunch, and I know how hard it can be to start all over and make new friends at our age."

"I am sure we will," Ziva said, wondering when she had gotten used to speaking in terms of "we." It went strongly against her deep-seated independence, and she was ironically glad when Tony returned and saved her from her thoughts.

"Miss me?" he asked teasingly before settling beside his "bride" and looping an easy arm around her shoulders.

Ziva rolled her eyes and smiled, not disturbed in the least by his touch. "Very much. I could not live without you."

Tony was suddenly transported back to a chair in Somalia at those words, but if either woman noticed his discomfort during the introductions, neither mentioned it. The trio talked through the end of the match, which Quantico won resoundingly, while Jamie played nearby.

Danielle turned to the couple. "So will you be joining us for the third half?"

Ziva looked perplexed and opened her mouth to challenge the mathematics of that, but Tony cut her off with a laugh.

"Also called a 'social,' Love. The teams and their friends and families get together after the match for food and drinks." He gave Danielle a winning smile. "We'll be there."

"And they tend to talk some trash," Danielle added, smiling and gathering her young son's things. "All in good fun, of course."

Jamie whined to be picked up, too, and Tony saw that Danielle was loaded down with bags and toys so he offered, "Want a ride, little guy?"

The boy nodded and allowed himself to be scooped up. He immediately latched on firmly and Tony felt the grip all the way to his heart when Jamie said, "You're tall like my daddy."

Tony hoped neither the child nor the adults would hear the strain in his voice. "I bet he misses you very much."

Jamie nodded, apparently tired from playing in the sun all morning as he laid his blond head on Tony's shoulder. "I miss him, too."

Tony fought a sigh, feeling the little boy's pain. He was no stranger to missing a father, even if the reasons were vastly different. Danielle appeared at Tony's side, finding a free hand in a way only mothers can to lay on her baby's back.

"We'll make a picture for Daddy when we get home, okay, kiddo?"

Jamie nodded sleepily against Tony's chest but he was smiling again—and still smiling when Tony settled him into his car seat once they had crossed the field. Tony straightened from the car with a pop of his back that he hoped no one noticed.

But Danielle just shook his hand warmly and gave Ziva a hug that Tony could see his partner trying not to recoil from—and it broke his heart that such a simple, friendly gesture could cause her pain.

"Thank you both," Danielle said. "It was nice meeting you, and I'll see you over at the pub. You can follow me. It's off-base but not too hard to find."

They said their temporary goodbyes and got in the car, riding in silence while they wound their way down the tree-lined main road out to the front gate.

"So what exactly are we going to be doing at this social?" Ziva asked.

Tony just glanced at her. "Socializing," he said, glad he was driving so Ziva didn't blow their cover with her … ahem _… skill _behind the wheel. He was surprised when Ziva actually blushed. "You do know how to do that, right, Agent David?"

She blinked at his tone, unsure if he was teasing. In truth, he was feeling a bit irritated, both from the sleepless night catching up with him and from his interaction with Jamie. He couldn't say why, but the adorable little boy had struck a nerve in him somewhere deep.

"I have been bar-flopping before, Tony," she said tightly—and then she glared when he burst out laughing. "Hopping," she said quickly, pulling the correct phrase from somewhere in the back of her mind.

"Nice save," he said, smiling and finding his mood instantly lighter. He wondered how one simple butchered saying could have accomplished that, and he worried that Ziva's mood swings might be contagious.

And then he mentally berated himself for it. The woman had been through hell, and it was a miracle she could function, let alone find a way to laugh.

"Do you think Stone will be here?" she asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Maybe," Tony said, knowing it was about fifty-fifty whether their suspect showed up or not. "I wonder why he's not on the team."

"Civilian?" Ziva ventured.

Tony lifted a shoulder and pulled the car forward at the green signal. "The Corps allows them to have a certain percentage of civilians as players. My guess is he doesn't want to get that close to anyone. Makes sense if he's our killer."

"Do you think he is? Our killer?"

Tony glanced at her, then turned his eyes back to the busy road, ostensibly to watch the heavy Saturday afternoon traffic. He mostly didn't want to think about how pretty she looked in the green fluttering silk that so complemented her skin tone. And he certainly didn't want to think about how she would be tonight when they set aside their undercover masks for the day.

He had no problems thinking about how at ease Ziva was in public and with the many strangers they had come into contact with by being seen and heard all over the base. Those thoughts came easily because they eased his guilt.

"We're focusing on him because he's all we've got," Tony said, his frustration evident—both with the case and his indecision surrounding his partner. "And all we've got is a guy who looked at us strangely. Who knows? Maybe he's lonely. And was just jealous."

He waited for the disparaging comment about who could be jealous of him. So he was surprised when Ziva said softly, "And he has a history of violence against women."

Tony felt something twist hard in his chest at her sad, subdued tone. It hurt to think that the old Ziva would have been disgusted and angry. Tony winced as he bit on his split lip, thinking it was even more painful to think that the old Ziva might never return.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "He also has a history of hanging around Marines, even though he's not in the service. Again, maybe he's jealous."

"I wish we had more to go on," she said, sighing. "It would be too easy if there had been a murder at Lejeune while he was there."

Tony heard her frustration that matched his own, and he placed a hand over hers. She looked up sharply at the contact.

"We're going to get this guy," Tony said quietly but with conviction.

Their eyes met as Tony pulled into a parking spot beside Danielle's SUV.

Ziva's eyes were dark as she asked, "Before he gets us?"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **An FYI to make sure we're all on the same page: The site was being wonky yesterday with Chapter 6 appearing and disappearing so you might want to check to make sure you've read that. Thanks to everyone who is reading and a double scoop of gratitude to those who are leaving reviews. This one ain't easy, kids, and it's extremely helpful to know what my readers are thinking! Another big thank you (with sprinkles on top) to the massively talented Detour—this thing is immeasurably better because of your efforts.

* * *

Tony tried to relax and blend in with the players and their families, but he couldn't get Ziva's words out of his head. He honestly couldn't remember a time when she had actually sounded frightened. Even in that freezing shipping container way back when, she had been angry, annoyed, playful even, at times.

But never afraid.

The agent watched his partner as she laughed at one of the DC player's jokes, and he realized she was doing a better job fitting in than he was. Tony slouched against the bar, sipping ginger ale from a rocks glass, and he scanned the bar for Stone, hoping the man wouldn't show so they could head back to the house. The agent side of him knew they should stay as long as possible even if Stone didn't show to canvass for other possible suspects. The very human side of him that was tired and in pain just wanted to go lie down and sleep.

The agent side won and Tony forgot all about his aching back as Dustin Stone entered the bar and pulled off his dark sunglasses. His eyes landed immediately on Ziva, and Tony couldn't help thinking they had their killer.

Tony felt a blade of panic stab him straight in the chest as Stone pocketed the sunglasses and walked purposely through the crowded bar—straight toward Ziva. DiNozzo moved quickly, circumventing the small social circles and ending up at his partner's elbow just as Stone brushed past and addressed a group behind them.

"Hey, buddy!" Stone said, high-fiving one of the DC players. "It's me, Dustin. I played with you guys down in Savannah two years ago. How's it going?"

Ziva looked up at Tony in annoyance at his sudden appearance, but then the ire was quickly erased from her gaze. "Sweetie! You scared me."

Tony leaned down and pecked her on the cheek. "Sorry, babe." He nodded to the men Ziva was talking to and smiled. "Hell of a match today, guys."

They spoke for a few minutes about the game, and Tony told a couple of stories about when he had played in college. Ziva found herself unable to tell if he was making it up—and thoroughly unnerved by that fact. She half-listened to the men's recollections as she also tried to hear Stone's conversation. She noticed the friend he had first talked to had moved on to mingle with another group, and Stone was suddenly walking back toward them.

Tony saw it, too, and smoothly passed Ziva the drink she held her hand out to take. Their eyes met and Tony was already moving closer as Ziva pretended to fumble the mostly empty glass. They timed it perfectly so that when Tony knocked slightly into Ziva to grab the falling drink, he pushed her directly into Stone's path.

"Oh!" Ziva exclaimed, turning and putting a hand on Stone's arm—and watching his eyes go wide for a split-second before he smiled politely. "I am so sorry!"

"No worries," Stone said casually, but he was still looking down at the hand Ziva had yet to move from his arm. He slid out of her grasp and met her eyes. "I should be more careful."

The tone was friendly enough, but Ziva and Tony exchanged a meaningful glance. Their company didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary about the encounter, and Tony asked, "That guy looked familiar. Do you know him?"

One Marine, the shorter of the two, shook his head but the other spoke up. "I don't know his name but he works on base somewhere. He comes to all the home games but when I asked if he wanted to play, he said no. Didn't give a reason so I just let it go."

Ziva smiled. "I do not see how anyone could pass this up. I have had a wonderful time today."

The shorter Marine grinned back at her. "We're glad you could make it. Always good to see new faces." He turned to Tony. "Danielle said you used to play. Want to join us on the field?"

Tony pulled a face. "I don't think you want my old ass out there embarrassing myself—and the green and gold."

"Come on," the taller man said, "you'd make a hell of a second row with your height."

Ziva felt a flicker of unease, hoping Tony wouldn't contradict what she had told Danielle out of his hearing. She kicked herself for not filling her partner in on that detail while they had been alone in the car. It was a mistake she wasn't sued to making. She spoke before Tony could open his mouth. "Sweetie, I would rather you did not play. I am not sure all that violence would be good for your back."

Tony blinked at her for a second before turning his palms up and giving the Marines a sad smile. "Sorry, guys. You heard the lady."

The taller Marine laughed. "Smart man, Tony. Smart man."

Ziva almost sighed in relief and spoke again to change the subject. "Speaking of violence," she said, looking around the bar at the various groups talking, eating and drinking. "I thought you said rugby crowds were loud and raucous? This seems pretty tame to me."

The Marines exchanged a mischievous glance between themselves and then the shorter one winked at Tony. "Let's show this girl what we're made of!"

The taller of the two turned suddenly and raised his voice, his friend joining in a second later as he called out, "We call upon DC to sing us a song! To sing us a song! To sing us a song! We call upon DC to sing us a song…"

Tony blanched as the two Marines waded into the suddenly attentive crowd, realizing what was about to happen. He grabbed Ziva by the arm and led her out the door even as she started to protest. She dug her heels in at the door just as one DC player was about to start singing a well-known rugby song. The songs were all in good fun, with players singing individual verses while the rest of the crowd joined in during the choruses, but they were also laced with sexual innuendo and could be downright raunchy.

Knowing the players had chosen to start off with one of the more explicit ones, Tony didn't think Ziva needed to hear this particular song. But she wasn't budging, her eyes shooting sparks as she questioned him silently.

So Tony did the only thing he could think of.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, covering her mouth and reaching up to cup her face. He nudged her toward the door and wasn't sure if he felt relieved or sickened that she forgot all about the song and let him push her gently against one of the brick columns outside the bar.

He felt her slim arms wrap around his waist as she pressed up against him, rising on her toes to meet his mouth. He started to pull away, fully prepared to get slapped, but she stopped him, clinging to his body and whispering into his ear while pretending to be sucking at his throat.

"Do not stop," she breathed. "Stone is staring straight at us from inside."

Tony remembered that the floor to ceiling windows provided a perfect view of them to the entire bar, and he hoped Ziva would think that was why he chose to bring her out here and put on this show. And then he forgot about the whole world when his partner pressed her soft lips to his again, her tongue sliding into his mouth as if it belonged there. She bit his lip slightly, the sharp sting bringing him back to his senses—not because it really hurt, but because he remembered her visceral reaction to tasting his blood the night before.

He reached up and took her face in his hands, trying not to wince at the outright lust in her eyes. He was suddenly extremely glad they were standing practically in a parking lot because he knew she would have hopped up, wrapped her legs around his waist and fucked him right against the column otherwise.

Even worse, he wasn't sure he could have stopped her.

He watched her shake herself like a wet puppy and take several deep breaths. "We should go now," she said slowly.

Tony turned quickly toward the car. "Yep."

* * *

Tony had beaten Ziva to the driver's seat by a second, and he was glad as he drove back toward base that he could just drive and let his mind wander instead of being relegated to the passenger seat—and his possible demise. He was mostly trying not to think about his own body's reaction to Ziva's pressing hard against him.

He was also marveling over the fact that Ziva had accepted his explanation about the songs without question—or anger. She had almost seemed pleased that he had been looking out for her, and he tried not to think about the hurt in her eyes when he had brought up Gibbs' trying to protect him. He had really been expecting her to be angry and to rail at him for his chauvinism.

It made him wonder if they still okay to do this job together. They needed to be able to anticipate each other, and Tony wasn't sure he could keep juggling Ziva's mercurial moods. But then he thought about their ease in orchestrating the "accident" with the drink in the bar, all done without a single word spoken between them.

Tony's runaway thoughts almost stopped him from noticing the man crouched in the bushes outside their temporary home on base as he pulled into the driveway.

Almost.

And he looked over to find Ziva's eyes on the same target before they swung over to meet his.

"Stay in the car," Tony ordered, watching the anger he had expected earlier flash through her dark eyes. "You're not armed. I am."

That was something they had discussed at length with Gibbs and McGee while setting up the mission. It flowed with Tony's cover as an MP to be carrying at all times, but they had decided it didn't make sense for Ziva, who was playing housewife, to be armed, as well. Tony shoved aside the same anger he had felt their first night in the house when he had watched Ziva unstrap the knife from ankle as she took off her loose, flowing pants to get ready for bed.

_"Thought we decided you weren't carrying," Tony had said, his eyes on the knife and not on her long, bare legs. _

_Ziva had just lifted an infuriatingly disinterested shoulder at him. "_You _decided for me. I never agreed."_

Tony slid from the car and hoped like hell Ziva would stay put even though this didn't fit their killer's MO, which was to strike at nighttime. As the agent pulled his gun from the discreet ankle holster, he recognized the man as their neighbor.

The man stood suddenly, looking at Tony's drawn gun and squeaking in surprise. His hands came up immediately, and Tony said firmly, "Don't move."

Their neighbor nodded slowly, as if he were afraid too vigorous a movement would prompt Tony to shoot him. He glanced at the flier in his left hand. "I was trying to leave this for you. It flew out of my hand. I'm sorry. It's an invitation for the block party on Friday."

Tony listened to the choppy sentences and wasn't quite sure if he believed the guy. Their killer was a pro who didn't leave evidence so it was likely he would have an excuse—and props—prepared for an emergency.

Ziva spoke from beside him and Tony almost screamed at her, both for her gentle hand pointing his gun toward the ground and for disobeying his order.

But now was not the time to remind her that he was senior.

So he smiled and slid the gun back into the holster. "I'm sorry about that," he said, faking a chuckle and moving toward the man. "Hell of a way to meet your new neighbor, huh?"

"I'm Sam Houser," the man said, stepping out of the bushes and shaking hands with the couple. "I've been traveling for the past few days, but it's nice to meet you."

"Tony Newsome," the agent said, and then nodded at Ziva, watching Houser's reaction closely. It didn't escape his attention that no murders had occurred while Houser had been gone. "And this is my lovely wife, Ziva."

Houser just smiled, still a bit shakily, which could easily have been a cover, Tony thought. "That's a lovely name."

"I am Iraqi," Ziva said boldly, also watching their neighbor closely.

Houser cocked his head. "A Hebrew name for an Iraqi woman. Interesting."

Ziva felt a little shiver go down her spine at that, but she just smiled and said cryptically, "My family is very complicated."

Houser broke into a bright grin. "Aren't they all?" He shook his head. "Well, don't mind me. I'll just leave this with you and let you be on your way."

He handed them the flier and waved as he made his way back to his own house. "Hope to see you there!"

* * *

They walked into the house to a ringing phone and exchanged an uneasy glance.

Tony picked it up and answered, grinning with a relief he couldn't quite explain when Abby's bubbly voice came over the line.

"Tony! It's your favorite cousin Mina! And guess what? I'm coming over tonight."

Tony stifled a laugh at the fake name and wondered what was going on. He felt his heart skip a beat as the thought occurred to him that Abby might be going behind Gibbs' back to see them.

"Uncle G is cool with it, too," Abby said as if in anticipation of the question she knew he couldn't ask over the unsecure line. "Be there at 7, k?"

"I'll even make you dinner, _Mina_," he said, still trying not to laugh. And still trying to figure out what was going on. If Gibbs needed to contact them, there were procedures in place to make that happen. Abby hadn't liked it, but her role had been over once she had made their IDs and gotten their covers together. Gibbs had even vetoed her coming to the listening post house at night.

Tony shrugged off his growing unease and turned to Ziva. "We're having company tonight, Babe."


	8. Chapter 8

Abby clutched the skull-shaped pan of brownies as she approached the house where Tony and Ziva were playing couple.

She was nervous. Scared, even.

She saw a neighbor peek out from a window, and she shivered in the humid summer evening, wondering what the hell she was doing.

But then she felt the weight of the tiny package in her pocket and steeled herself.

She needed to do this.

The door opened before she knocked, and she found herself wrapped in the warmth and safety of Tony's solid embrace and she knew he had been watching since she got out of the car—a boring one from the motor pool instead of her flashy classic or her hearse.

Abby buried her face in his shoulder, feeling a sudden, shocking stab of jealousy that Ziva got to curl up each night next to him. She shook it off because it had nothing to do with her mission tonight, and she stepped back saw the genuine happiness in his green gaze.

There was also tension and a glimmer of pain, but his tone was light and teasing as he pulled her the rest of the way into the house and shut the door, locking it up tight.

"Cousin Mina! You didn't bring your pal Dracula, did you?"

Abby blushed as she laughed, studying her friend and realizing that as much as she loved his humor and his wit, she loved his quiet strength, too. She wanted to draw on that strength by melting back into his arms, which had always been a safe haven for her—had been her salvation during Gibbs' Mexican vacation—but she just smiled, feeling suddenly somber. "You've got enough monsters around here."

Ziva entered the room, dragging a shroud of tension behind her.

So Tony joked, "Speaking of monsters, there's my lovely 'bride.' "

Ziva just regarded him with steely eyes. "Your sauce is burning," she said dully, and then she turned and walked past them and up the stairs.

Tony sighed and ran for the kitchen, telling himself he wasn't meeting Abby's shocked eyes because of the potential disaster on the stove. He picked up a spoon and tended to the sauce, feeling Abby boring holes in his spine.

"You two fighting?" Abby asked, sounding very young.

It made Tony suddenly wonder what Abby's childhood had been like.

He turned. "We're…" He trailed off, knowing anything he said would be picked up by the microphone.

Abby put her back to the camera and pulled a small device from her pocket, nodding slightly. Tony almost smiled at Abby's obvious planning—and willingness to help her friends despite the risks. He imagined her giving a long explanation to their technophobe boss about jammed signals, crossed wires, cosmic interference or something, all while staring daggers at McGee to keep him from challenging her.

Tony turned his thoughts back to the present and said, "I don't know what we are. One minute she seems fine and the next she's biting my head off for something or another. And the next she's—"

He stopped cold, finally meeting Abby's eyes. He expected her to verbalize what he was pretty sure she had figured out he was going to say so he was surprised when she said softly, " 'Seems fine.' "

The two little words—from the verbose scientist who usually talked a mile a minute—hit him like a punch in the gut. He nodded and turned back to his sauce, realizing he had made his favorite comfort food and wondering if Abby had noticed, too. "Seems fine."

He almost dropped the spoon when Abby slid up and wrapped her arms around him, one across his belly and one hand against his chest. "What are you going to do, Tony?" she whispered, her breath warm on his shoulder blade.

Tony put his hands flat on the countertop and sighed heavily. "I don't know, Abbs." He paused, staring into the gently bubbling sauce. He turned suddenly. "Abby. Why are you here?"

The Goth looked up at him, thinking about what was in her pocket. She debated spilling the truth. Maybe he could help her. But she didn't know what he knew and she just couldn't take the chance.

"I need to fix the camera in the garage. It's been all blinky and I'm thinking there's a cable or phone line near it so I need to move it to another corner of the room so there won't be any interference and then the picture should be crystal clear. Of course, it could also be a bad wire or something hinky with the camera itself so I need to check that, too." She stopped talking and took a breath, meeting Tony's sharp green eyes. She finished weakly, "I thought I could have Ziva help me. We could have some time for girl talk."

"Are you going to tell me what you needed to talk to Ziva about so bad that you probably lied to Gibbs?" he asked evenly. "And to me?"

Her eyes slid down to the floor. "I can't," she whispered. Then she looked up. "Please, Tony. I never ask you for anything. Just give us some time alone?"

Tony stared into her cool green gaze and then sighed again. "Of course, Abbs. But you go now, and you make it quick. Then a quick dinner and you leave."

She looked hurt at his rough tone.

He saw it and softened. "You can't be in this house at night, Abby. It's too dangerous." He narrowed his eyes at her. "How the hell did you even get Gibbs to send you instead of McGee? Voodoo? You poison his coffee? That's against the rules, you know."

She gave him a half-smile. "I told him I could report on how bad your back is. We all know you wouldn't say anything to McGee, but I can read you like a book."

Tony shot her a glare, wondering if Abby was even aware Gibbs had sent her to gather more than medical information.

She shrugged. "I can. Remember who stayed with you after the plague? I could always tell when you were hurting and too stubborn to admit it."

Tony thought about that for a moment, knowing she was right. Whenever the pain had found a way to get just a little bit worse, when it felt like his chest might actually collapse in on itself, he had found Abby moving subtly closer, her touch lingering just a little bit longer. He cocked his head to the side, remembering Ziva's mention of Gibbs questioning her about his back. "He's actually worried about me?" he asked lightly.

She met his gaze evenly. "He knows there's more going on here than either you or Ziva are saying," she said bluntly. She wanted to add that Gibbs also thought they were sleeping together and that she thought that was as bad a decision as lying to Gibbs, but Abby held her tongue.

He lifted a shoulder and stirred the sauce. "I'm fine. We're dealing." He turned back. "Dinner's in twenty. And then you're leaving, Abbs."

Abby nodded. "Understood."

* * *

Abby practically had to drag Ziva downstairs and into the garage.

"I am sorry, Abby," Ziva said as the Goth dismantled the perfectly functional camera—along with the microphone. "But I do not do girl talk."

Abby sensed an "anymore" at the end of that sentence, knowing that Ziva and Jenny had spent long hours together crawling all over Eastern Europe. But Abby just sat backwards on the stepladder and ran her hand over her pocket, feeling the small package inside. She forced a smile despite the sick feeling in her stomach. "Come on, I just want to chat. Catch up. You know? I can tell you all about your plants."

Ziva sank onto the step that led into the house. "They are plants, Abby. Thank you for watering them, but I am not so sure they have done anything interesting since I left."

"Au contraire!" Abby said, finding a grin. "Edna had babies since you've been gone! Little tiny offshoots—and they look just like her, only tinier, but—"

Ziva cut her off with a tired, "You named my plants?"

Abby swallowed nervously and then said, "Sure. Living things should have names and—"

"Abby—"

"Okay, okay," Abby grumbled, still trying to smile. "So you don't want to chat about Edn, er, your plants. So let's talk about something else. What's it like living with Tony? Who does the cooking? Do you make him do the laundry? I wouldn't, if I were you, because one time he told me he left a red shirt in with his whites and ended up with a bunch of pink dress shirts. I told him to just go with it and wear the pink ones, but he said Gibbs would probably smack him into next week. But I think Tony's manly enough to rock the pink. He's definitely hot so whatever he wears is fine by me. Even if it's nothin'."

Abby rambled her way into an awkward silence, and she watched the tired face of her friend as Ziva stared down at the garage floor. Abby was about to ask if the grease stain looked like Elvis when Ziva looked up suddenly, studying Abby with glittering dark eyes.

"What do you really want to know, Abby?" she asked, her tone hard. "What it is like to sleep with Tony?"

The scientist's mouth dropped open, her black lipstick a perfect O of surprise at Ziva's swift change from exhausted to annoyed. She tried to think of something to say to that, but Ziva just continued.

"As if you do not know?" she said, the question more of a statement than Abby liked.

"Tony and I," Abby said, feeling a flash of anger that Tony had spilled about that drunken night so long ago, "are just friends."

"With benefits?" Ziva said, her eyes lighting up unnaturally with her mocking glee. "Is he as good in bed as he claims?"

"Ziva!" Abby cried, wondering who this stranger was who had taken over her friend's body. "We were both really drunk and it was a long time ago. It was right after Kate died and we both got wasted and were feeling…"

Ziva's grin was feral. "Wow. I did not think you two actually did it." She looked appreciative. "You both hide it well."

"It was one time, Ziva," Abby said, annoyed that she had admitted it—and that she had even thought Tony would betray her confidence. "And we're just friends who were both hurting and needed to make a connection with someone who knew exactly how the other was feeling. I love Tony with all my heart. He's my best friend. But we're not fuck buddies."

Abby's cold tone seemed to snap Ziva out of her fog. "I am sorry, Abby. I did not mean to be so crass."

The anger seeped out of Abby's posture at the agent's soft words. The Goth had seen the pain in Ziva's dark eyes when Abby said Tony was her best friend and that she had needed a connection. It looked like Ziva needed one, too.

"Yes, you did," Abby said without antagonism. "You're pulling a Tony and deflecting. You know why I wanted to talk to you, right?"

Ziva's gaze slid away, bounced off the shiny car in the center of the garage and returned to Abby's face. "Yes. I knew the moment you showed up to fix the camera instead of McGee. I knew because you have been in my apartment. I knew because of the way you have been looking at me. And because of what you have in your pocket." She paused, looking away. "They are exactly what you think they are."

Abby felt tears well in her eyes at Ziva's emotionless tone as she confirmed her suspicions. She forced a smile. "You're getting to be a damned good investigator, Ziva."

The agent did not return the smile. She simply sighed and said, "I am guessing you did not come here to give them to me. So say what you are going to say."

The empty tone had Abby reeling for a moment before she pulled the tiny item from her pocket.

The glinting, wicked tips of the razor blades peeked from the worn package, its impromptu case held together with a rubber band. It had been obvious from the moment Abby had laid eyes on them in Ziva's medicine cabinet that they were not just spares lying around until some handyman emergency. Abby had noticed Ziva's new apartment contained very few personal items—but the blades, held tight in their little case with pocket lint stuck in the rubber band, were obviously cherished possessions.

Abby expected Ziva to react. The Goth had been almost as afraid of this moment as of all its implications. The Ziva she knew would never hurt her, but Abby wasn't sure that Ziva had come home on the plane with her team. The person who had was a good imitation: She walked, talked and looked like Ziva, but Abby had noticed something lacking. Abby and Ziva were not—and had never been—as close as Abby and Kate once were. But Abby was a scientist who studied patterns for a living, and she knew when she was looking at an incomplete set of data.

Watching Ziva stare blankly at her now, Abby realized the solution wouldn't be as simple as lending a friendly ear.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Abby asked softly, wincing at her choice of words but unable to take the silence any longer—or the pain in Ziva's pretty brown eyes.

Ziva shrugged, those dead eyes moving from her blades to Abby's face. "Do those not say it all?"

Abby didn't say a word.

Ziva stood and turned toward the door that led into the house, but Abby's soft voice made her freeze.

"Please."

Ziva let her head drop and she stared down at the step. "Please what?" she asked tiredly. "Talk?"

Abby nodded, hoping she was finally getting somewhere.

But Ziva just bit her lip and sighed, sinking back onto the step. "That is all Tony wants to do, too."

"It might help," Abby said. "Tony's a really good listener when he needs to be. He's helped me through some seriously shitty times, through things I couldn't talk to anyone about. But I feel safe with him. Maybe you should try to let him help. All you have to do is ask."

Ziva laughed bitterly. "Oh, I asked him to help me. He would not."

"What?" Abby gaped at the agent, unable to believe Tony had refused to help a friend in need. It didn't jive with the Tony she knew—or the helplessness and guilt that had been in his eyes when she had begged for time to talk with Ziva alone.

"I did not want to talk, Abby," Ziva clarified, the rest of the information shining in her dark eyes. "But he would not help me."

"Think what you want about him," Abby said, her mind reeling. "Buy into as much of his crap as you want. But Tony would never take advantage of you, Ziva."

"It is not 'taking advantage' if I want it. I do not know much right now, but I know what I want."

_I really don't think you do, Ziva,_ Abby thought.

But Ziva continued. "And what I want is to feel normal again." Her eyes dropped to her hands momentarily before coming up and burning into Abby's cool green gaze. "I could not even look at men when I first got back. I would see them staring at me—at my body—while walking down the street, and it was all I could do not to slit their dirty throats."

Abby shivered at the intensity in her friend's eyes. It shamed her to realize that she hadn't even thought about Ziva's feelings toward men after her captivity. Abby wasn't sure if it was because no one had talked about what they all knew had happened—especially Ziva—or if Abby herself just didn't want to think about it. It was too painful. Abby shivered again, trying to imagine how Ziva felt keeping all that in—and hiding her reactions. The scientist mentally reviewed, trying to remember a time when Ziva had flinched away from a male teammate, or any male, and she couldn't. Abby suddenly realized it had a lot less to do with Ziva's being okay than it did with Ziva's being damned good undercover.

Looking up at the woman's tired eyes now, Abby realized Ziva had been _living_ undercover for the past year, hiding herself—and her anguish—from those who should have been supporting her. Abby also realized, with a start, that it must be very similar to how Tony had felt while secretly dating Jeanne.

Abby knew pushing Ziva to accept Tony's help was unwise, but she couldn't stop herself from saying, "I think Tony can help you, Ziva."

The agent's eyes brightened slightly. "So do I," she said, but her voice was sad. "But he does not want to help me. I already told you that."

"He might not want to sleep with you, but he does want to help you. I know that. Why do you think it would help?" she asked gently, confused by Ziva's logic and frankly a little surprised she was coming right out and admitting it. It made Abby wonder if this was some sort of distraction technique. Looking down at the well-worn package of razor blades, Abby winced a little and realized dinner would be ready soon.

"Because even the thought of sex with someone else makes me sick," Ziva said honestly. "But when I think about being with Tony… feeling his hands on me… touching him… feeling him inside me—hey, you wanted girl talk," Ziva said, almost smiling. She turned serious again. "He does not scare me."

Abby nodded even though she was blushing furiously and trying to block hazy images of her and Tony tangled up in her black satin sheets.

She shoved aside those thoughts and gripped the blades tighter. "Ziva, we need to talk about this. I know you feel like everything is out of your control now, but—"

"Oh Cousin Mina!"

Abby was immensely grateful for Tony's calling out to them and she shoved the package back into her pocket just as the door opened. Abby could practically feel Ziva's relief as the Goth stood and replaced the camera.

"Dinner's ready, m'ladies," Tony said, grinning and holding out a hand to help Abby down from the ladder.

Abby almost faceplanted at the naked jealousy in Ziva's eyes, but she just smiled. "It smells super tasty. Let's go. I'm starved."

Tony flicked a glance at the gathering darkness outside the garage windows. "Good. Shovel it in and then you're out the door, _Mina._"

Abby didn't miss the surprise—or the little flash of pleasure—in Ziva's eyes when Tony held out a hand gallantly to help the agent to her feet.

"Let's go eat, drink and be merry," Tony said, still smiling as he held the door for the two women.

Abby followed Ziva into the house, fighting a little shiver as she remembered the rest of the saying.

_For tomorrow we may die. _


	9. Chapter 9

Dinner could have gone several ways.

It could have been awkward, with ten times more chewing than speaking.

It could have been raucous and cheerful, with Abby and Tony hamming it up and dragging Ziva along with their silliness.

It could have been tense, with Abby planting those blades next to the bread basket and demanding answers.

But mostly, it was just normal.

Abby regaled them with the harrowing tale of Major Mass Spec's recent breakdown—from which he was now fully recovered, thank you very much.

Tony made Abby laugh with one of his college rugby stories until she almost choked on her pasta.

Ziva joined in at the appropriate times, but honestly, it was hard enough to get a word in edgewise when Tony and Abby were on a roll.

The only tense moment had been when a sudden storm had blown through, making a tree slap the windowpane hard enough to make it rattle. And Abby got a sudden, slightly unwelcome glimpse into how stressful undercover work was as both agents popped to their feet at the same time, guns in hand as they both swung toward the glass. The scientist watched them flip from dinner-party ease to ready to face down death and back again so quickly that she suddenly had a newfound respect for both of them.

After that, Tony had served dessert quickly, and Abby found herself headed for the door before she knew it.

All of Ziva's earlier levity, faked or forced as it was, was suddenly gone as she watched Tony sling an arm around Abby's shoulders and steer her out of the room.

Her voice was dull again when she said, "I will stay in here and do the dishes so you can talk about me in peace."

Abby wanted to say something to that, but Tony just gave her a look that he must have borrowed from Gibbs—because it shut her black-ringed mouth instantly.

Tony stopped by the door, lowering his voice and staring straight into her eyes. "You can't come back, Abby," he said seriously. "I mean it."

She nodded, and Tony knew there was something weighing heavily on her mind that she desperately wanted to spill. And he was pretty sure he knew what it was.

But still she stayed silent, flashing the jamming device from her pocket meaningfully and steadily meeting his eyes, the message that she wanted him to talk—and that it was safe to—loud and clear.

"Tell Gibbs I'm fine," he said, holding her gaze. He almost added an order to tell Gibbs they were both fine, but he stopped himself short. He wasn't about to rat on Ziva—not now, maybe not ever—but he wasn't going to tell Abby to lie. He mostly just wished he knew if getting pulled would be the best possible thing for Ziva or the worst.

Abby was just staring up at him, her sharp eyes studying him like he was a particularly fascinating piece of evidence.

"Are you?" she asked.

"Am I what?" he asked, his thoughts of Ziva taking a razor blades to her delicate wrists having derailed his attention.

"Are you okay, Tony?" Abby asked again, raw concern in her voice.

"My back's fine," he said, glancing again at the darkening windows.

He moved to open the door, but Abby put a hand flat against it, keeping it firmly closed.

"Wow," she said, sighing. "A lie and a deflection in three little words. I forget how good you are sometimes."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued. "Ziva's problems aside," she said, sounding like the last thing she wanted to do was set those issues aside, "you're in pain, Tony. I can see it in your eyes, in the way you're moving. How bad is it?"

"I'm fine," he said again, feeling seriously uncomfortable. He smiled, "Just getting old, Abbs. Er, _Mina_."

Abby rolled her eyes as she whacked his shoulder. "Yeah, Tony, you're positively ancient. Shut up." She paused, then pulled him into a fierce hug. "Take care of yourself, okay? Take care of both of you."

He hugged her back, relishing the warmth of the comforting embrace that was so different from Ziva's desperate touches, and then he gently pushed her away. "I will," he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "But you really need to go."

Abby called a goodbye to Ziva—and wasn't surprised when she got nothing in return. She sighed and followed Tony out into the night, feeling a sudden thrill as he kept his hand on her back all the way to the car.

She wondered what it meant that she was terrified for her friend, afraid that a killer was watching her every movement, but still—with that firm hand on her back—she felt safe.

She just hoped Ziva would eventually feel the same way.

* * *

"You didn't actually have to do the dishes," Tony said, returning to the kitchen. "I made the mess."

"Did you see our very friendly neighbor out there?" she asked, setting the last dish into the rack to dry. "Something about him did not sit right with me."

Tony almost sighed. "Abby said to tell you goodbye," he said, watching Ziva carefully. "You must not have heard her yell."

She shrugged. "The water was running."

A muscle ticked in Tony's jaw. "Just like my puking reopened my split lip?"

She turned, smiling her first real smile of the evening. That smile was feral but her words were appreciative. "That was a very good lie."

Tony, who was never one to respond as expected, found himself irritated by the compliment. "I wouldn't have had to lie, _to Gibbs_, if you had told him the truth."

Ziva's eyes went shuttered, but Tony read the anger in his partner's tense body. She balled small hands into capable fists and hissed at him, her eyes flicking toward the corner of the room. "What are you doing?"

Tony blinked, having forgotten that Abby and her jamming device were long gone and the cameras and microphones on them were picking up everything. He mentally cursed himself as a glance at the clock told him Gibbs and McGee had just taken their posts in the house down the street. He went completely red, thanking all things holy he hadn't slipped up somewhere that could have blown their cover. He didn't have time to wonder if that was a mistake he even _would_ have made because he was shocked by the lust that sprang up in Ziva's eyes as she crossed the kitchen.

"Fine," she said, kissing him hard on the mouth, one hand sliding down the front of his jeans, one hand gripping his jaw as he tried to pull away. She stood on her tiptoes and looked over his shoulder, directly to where they both knew the camera was. "We have been fucking like dogs since we got here. It is time to stop pretending."

Tony's mouth dropped open in shock, but with his back to the camera and no words coming out, no one watching would see his stunned state. His eyes dropped to the hand she still had on his face, holding him in place because she also knew exactly who was watching—and that Gibbs was the one person who might be able to read Tony well enough to see the difference between his shock at Ziva's admission and his shock that it was a complete and utter lie.

But then he saw the cut on her palm that he instinctively knew was not a "slip" while doing the dishes. He slid his thumb down and covered the shallow cut while carefully taking her hand from his pants. He looked right into her eyes and said, so softly only she could hear, "Yeah, Ziva. It is time to stop pretending."

He was half-expecting the slap, but that didn't mean it didn't still hurt. The stinging in his cheek was forgotten, though, drowned in the pain and betrayal blooming brightly in her dark eyes.

For a moment, they did not move. Tony had no idea what Ziva was thinking, but he figured McGee was gaping at the monitor and Gibbs was glaring at it hard enough to break it.

* * *

He was right.

The two agents at the listening post watched as Ziva silently made her way out of the kitchen—but not before glaring at the camera just as fiercely as Gibbs stared back at her image on the screen. McGee watched her stalk through the house and up to the master bathroom. But Gibbs just watched Tony's back while the agent stood unmoving, seemingly staring out of the window over the sink.

Gibbs would have given anything to see his agent's face—and figured Tony knew that, considering the way he covered his pink-tinged cheek, lowered his head and practically ran from the room. Gibbs wanted to be pissed at his agents for lying to him—and the agent side of him was. But the very human side of him was too busy remembering a particularly stressful assignment in Paris that had more often than not led to particularly stress-_relieving_ nights with Jenny.

Mostly, Gibbs—like Tony—was having a hard time separating the two sides.

McGee finally found his voice and turned wide eyes to his suddenly stone-faced boss. "What just happened?"

Gibbs was silent long enough to make McGee think he was going to ignore him.

But then Gibbs just sighed heavily. "Rule 12, Tim."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: ** A reminder about the warnings for this: This story contains very mature themes and adult content.

* * *

Tony walked into the bedroom, saw the light on in the bathroom and almost decided to lie down on the floor and sleep. But Ziva's threats were like a physical object choking his throat so he moved across the room and raised a hand to knock on the door.

She opened it before he had the chance.

And he was floored by her transformation.

The light makeup was gone from her freshly scrubbed face—and so was the anger. With the annoyance and accusation gone from her eyes, all that was left was pain. Tony was shocked to see that her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and his partner suddenly looked… soft.

She raised a hand to the cheek she had slapped, letting her thumb rest gently on his healing split lip.

"Forgive me?"

It was all he could do not to break down himself at the remorse, sadness and fragile hope in those whispered words. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

"Of course, Ziva," he whispered into her lavender-scented curls.

They stayed that way for a long time.

When Ziva finally pulled away, she left a hand on his arm, as if needing the contact to ground herself. "I am really tired," she said, moving toward the bed and sliding under the covers. "Your dinner was wonderful. I should have told you earlier…"

She trailed off, looking at him with an ocean of sadness in her eyes.

He knew it wasn't because of her poor manners so he just smiled. "Thanks. I can't cook much, but that's one thing most people don't run screaming from."

She smiled, tentatively, as if trying to remember how. "Family recipe?"

He was glad his back was to her as he sat on the edge of the bed—because for a moment all he could see was bloody bathwater and carefully filleted flesh. "My mother's," he said quietly. He kept his back turned until he could shove down the memories and school his features into something that couldn't be described as haunted. "Do you want me to sleep on the floor? I don't mind."

She shook her head quickly. "Stay," she said, staring straight into his eyes. "How did she die, Tony?"

"My mother?" he asked, unnecessarily and because he was uncomfortable.

Ziva nodded. "I know you were young, but I am ashamed that I never asked you about her."

He frowned at her, confused. "It's okay. I don't really like talking about her much anyway. She drowned, accidental." He figured that was true enough. For all he knew, she could have drowned in her bloody bathwater before actually bleeding out from the self-inflicted wounds, right? He watched Ziva watch him, and he suddenly wondered how thorough those Mossad dossiers had been—and how thorough his father's lawyers had been, too. Before she could say anything, he said, "I should apologize to you. I haven't seen your new apartment—I never even asked if you'd found one, didn't know you had until Abby mentioned your plants."

He stopped, realizing he had admitted to his eavesdropping.

But Ziva just smiled wanly. "Did you really think I did not know you were listening?"

His cheeks went red and he smiled back. "Ninja-chick."

She nodded, her smile growing stronger as her eyes roamed his body.

He looked up into those eyes and asked, "Did you mean it? All of it?"

She knew exactly what he was talking about and didn't bother to pretend otherwise. She didn't hesitate. "Yes."

But he did hesitate.

Even when she turned out the light, even when she slid under the covers and wriggled out of the robe so her bare skin was pressed against his clothed body, even when she moved a hand under his t-shirt, setting his skin on fire with the contact—still he hesitated.

"Ziva," he whispered, knowing the microphones couldn't pick up his whisper-soft voice. "What do you want? Really?"

"You," she whispered back huskily—again with no hesitation. "Please?"

His eyes closed at her pain. He opened them again and sought her eyes in the darkness. "Why, Ziva?"

"To feel normal again," she answered. A tear slipped down her face but her whispered voice stayed strong. "To know that I am something more to someone than an animal to be used for his pleasure."

He kept the tears that came to his own eyes carefully checked as he dipped his head and pressed light lips to her quivering ones. He could feel her hunger and he pulled back. "You're in control of this," he said as firmly as he could while still whispering. "You want to stop, we stop."

She nodded and then kissed him again, this time slowly and carefully. He felt her tongue skim his damaged lip and felt fresh tears slide down her cheeks.

"Shhhhh," he murmured against her soft mouth. "It's okay, Ziva."

She nodded again and buried her face in his shoulder, her hand slipping into his boxers. He felt her flinch at finding him half-hard already and he whispered, "We can stop whenever you want." Another part of his body practically shrieked in protest, but he ignored it. This was going to be ten times more painful for her than for him—no matter how far they got. Or didn't get.

She shook her head, and he felt her reach for him again, this time tentatively and gently—so much differently than when she had gripped him hard enough in the bathroom for the pleasure to border on pain. She stroked him into aching hardness and he pressed his lips to hers to mute his moan.

Her hand stilled and he waited for her to flinch away from him. But he looked down to find her smiling. She nodded toward the corner of the room. "You have no problems doing this on camera?" she asked teasingly.

And he suddenly realized exactly what she meant about feeling normal again.

"Not like we haven't done it before," he teased back, thinking about their escapades in that hotel room so many years ago. "And Gibbs told us to put on a show if we thought we were being watched."

He watched some dark emotion flick through her eyes and wondered if she was going to mock him for always listening to Gibbs—or if she felt like they were lying to their boss, too.

But then she said, very seriously, "I want this, Tony. You are not taking advantage of me."

He was stopped from answering—and thinking—as she turned him onto his back and sat astride him, her wetness warm on his belly. The blanket still covered him, and half of her, but Tony felt a flicker of unease that both Gibbs and McGee were watching this.

She leaned forward, kissing him softly and then pulling back slightly, her voice puppy soft. "I am on the pill and I was tested after…"

He felt her tense and said, "I haven't been with anyone since…"

Her eyes widened slightly but she just nodded, their eyes answering the mutual unasked question. He was glad he didn't actually have to say the pretty doctor's name, and he tried not to think about what it meant that Ziva clearly knew who he was talking about. Those thoughts were erased when Tony saw, heard and _felt_ Ziva's deep breath, and he suddenly wondered how badly she had been hurt by the animals who had captured her. He wondered if he should stop this, but the look in her eyes froze him in place. Anything he said, he knew she would see as rejection—as proof that she was damaged goods.

So he just shut his mouth and tried not to moan at the sweet torture of her easing herself down onto him, inch by painfully blissful inch. He realized his eyes were closed at about the same time she stopped moving, having sank down until his rock-hard length was buried to the hilt inside her. His eyes opened and he reached slowly for her hips, the tears streaming down her face reaching into his chest and ripping his heart out.

He opened his mouth to speak but she leaned forward, muting his words with her mouth. Her lips moved to his lobe and she whispered, "I am fine. I just need to go slow."

He nodded. "Take your time," he whispered, trying not to pant with his need. He nudged her jaw with his chin and smiled up at her. "I'm not going anywhere."

She smiled back even as more tears streamed down her face. She saw the questions in his eyes—the ones that had been there with all of her kisses—and she shook her head. "You do not scare me," she said, repeating her earlier words to Abby. She met his eyes. "I know you do not love me, but I also know you would never hurt me."

She kissed him again, not letting him respond. Not that he could have, anyway, as she started slowly rocking her hips against his. He could hear her breath catching in her throat, but when he looked up at her, he saw only pleasure in her eyes. She leaned forward and picked up the pace of her grinding and before he knew it, she was burying her face in his neck and moaning, low and long, as he felt the tiny explosions of her orgasm in her quivering flesh.

He felt her tears soaking into his t-shirt and moved his hands to her hips again to try to get her to stop. As soon as his skin touched hers, small hands locked around his wrists and he stared up into her wide eyes. He watched, unmoving as she shook off the momentary panic and gently pushed his hands above his head, pinning them there as she started to ride him again.

"Okay?" she whispered, keeping his wrists locked in place.

He nodded. "I know you would never hurt me," he whispered back.

She smiled, the expression moving from soft to teasing as she leaned down again and breathed directly into his ear. "Bet I come again before you do."

He almost laughed out loud, but he was too busy trying to call up the memory of his hideous fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Higginbotham, so he could help Ziva win her bet.

And she did.

He came a moment later, the sensations blocking out everything else so he barely noticed that Ziva had frozen on top of him. When his shuddering finally stopped, he did notice—and he kicked himself hard for not even considering how she might react to feeling him spurting out inside her. He stayed just as stone-still as her, trying not to spook her more with his movement.

She finally slid from his body and made her way to the bathroom, leaving him wondering if he should follow. He gave her a moment to clean up and then went and knocked softly, the door swinging inward as he did. The sight of her, curled up in the white robe against the tub again, made guilt give him a swift kick in the gut.

He moved carefully to her side, wholly surprised when she went willingly into his open arms to cry quietly against his chest.

"I'm so sorry, Ziva," he said, maybe a thousand times. Even if it were a million, it still wouldn't feel like enough. "I shouldn't have done that," he whispered, hurting for her in a way he hadn't known possible.

She shook her head against him. "I thought… I think…" She stopped, burrowed tighter into his embrace and began to sob, her harsh cries ripping him in half and making confetti of his soul. His guilt was like acid burning in his throat and he swallowed it, willing himself not to throw up.

He realized she was speaking softly, sometimes switching among the many languages she spoke, but he could figure out enough to come to understand that he hadn't known the half of the torture she had suffered at her captors' cruel hands.

"… touching me… hurting me… drinking canteens of water in front of me… laughing… until my face was throbbing… dirty Jew… his boot in my ribs… shoved himself inside me… broken… damaged…"

She finally stopped talking and he realized she had also stopped crying. She looked up into his anguished eyes and whispered, "They hurt me."

He swallowed the bile, the tears, the vicarious suffering for what had been done to her. "I'm so sorry, Ziva. That they hurt you. That you have to live with those memories. That we just assumed you were okay. I'm so sorry, Ziva, that we left you there. You didn't deserve that. Any of that."

She put her head down on his chest again, too exhausted to move. And he was glad for it. He didn't want her absolution—because he didn't think he deserved it.

Tony gathered her up in his arms and lifted her from the hard floor, feeling her tired body melt against his. He carried her back to bed, covering her with the soft, warm blanket and watching her curl up. He sat beside her, stroking her hair until she fell asleep.

He settled down onto the hard floor without a thought about his aching back. He wished there were a test Abby could perform to tell him if he had done the right thing. He honestly had no idea.

He still wasn't sure _why_ he had done it, and he found himself wishing he could get captured, beaten, tied to a chair and shot up with truth serum to find the answer.

He could have told himself it was because he had heard Ziva tell Abby that she needed him, needed to feel normal again. He could have told himself it was because he had slept with friends before without much thought about it. He could have told himself that it was because he had always wondered what it would be like to be with her. He could have told himself that it was because he had wanted it, too.

But he could not figure out which of those statements were true, which were half-truths, or wishes, or outright lies.

All he knew was that he had looked into those pained eyes, saw the absolute _need_ in them, and hadn't been able to deny her anything she wanted.

It seemed like an eternity ago that she had looked up at him with that shocking vulnerability and asked him to forgive her. And he had, easily.

He just hoped she could forgive him, too.

* * *

Gibbs left his shift with McGee and headed straight for the only place that made sense.

He almost growled in frustration when he found Jimmy instead of Ducky in the chilled air of the autopsy suite. He tried not to glare too hard at the amiable young man and said, "You're here early, Palmer."

Jimmy grinned. "Well, most people wait until after work to 'crack open a cold one'," he said, "but we like to get an early start around here."

Gibbs bit back a smile and said, "Ducky'd smack you silly for disrespecting his guests like that."

Jimmy went pale. "I…" He sighed. "I guess I need to work on my sense of humor, Agent Gibbs. I'm sorry."

Gibbs lifted a shoulder. "Not me you should apologize to."

Even the corpse on the table had more color than Jimmy. "He's right behind me, isn't he?" he asked nervously. At Gibbs' nod, he continued, "How do you two do that? Is there class, or something? Maybe I could take it and… Sorry, Agent Gibbs, Doctor."

The longtime friends shared an amused glance as Jimmy slunk out of the room.

"Young Mr. Palmer fancies himself a comedian," Ducky said, the glint in his eye unmistakable.

Gibbs shot a glance at the table. "Think he needs to work with a more responsive audience."

Ducky chuckled. "Indeed," he said. "There once was a famous ventriloquist… though his name slips my mind… but curiously, he had only one hand—"

"Ducky," Gibbs said in warning.

"Oh, right," the doctor replied, nodding. "May I have three guesses as to what brings you down here so early?"

"You'll only need one."

Ducky nodded again. "Ah, yes. Anthony and Ziva."

Gibbs waited a fraction of a second. "And?"

"And who?" Ducky asked, a mischievous look in his eye. "Those two have enough trouble to kill a herd of wild zebras without inviting a third into their tryst. And our Timothy hardly seems the type. Now Abigail, perhaps—"

"DUCK!" Gibbs shouted, drawing a somewhat contrite look from the doctor.

"Ah, I know," he said, leaning back against an empty table. "But you look like you are about to explode and I thought maybe—well, never mind. How about you tell me what's on your mind, my friend?"

"Be quicker to tell you what isn't."

"Now, Jethro," Ducky scolded gently. "I know you aren't exactly a chatterbox, but you are going to have to speak actual words to tell me what is bothering you."

Gibbs cracked a smile. And then he sighed, feeling bone-weary. "I was right that they're sleeping together. Ziva admitted it in full view of one of our cameras," he said, suppressing a shudder, "while she was giving Tony a good feeling up. And then I had to sit next to McGee and watch the two of them going at it like teenagers in bed."

Ducky grinned. "At least that explains why you are so distressed."

"This isn't funny," Gibbs growled, starting to pace. "They're in that house because they're baiting a killer. They should be worried about their covers, not when they'll get their next chance to screw each other."

"Aren't they undercover as a married couple?" Ducky asked innocently.

Gibbs just glared. "They aren't supposed to put on a show—and that was _not _just for show, I've been married four times so I know—unless they think they're being watched. No one got within 50 feet of that house with me and McGee watching from every possible angle. They're in danger and they need to realize that and stop playing games."

"So they knew you were watching over them," Ducky said slowly. "And you never called the bedroom phone as arranged to tell them they were in danger."

"Dammit, Ducky," Gibbs exploded. "Why are you defending their boneheaded moves?"

"Calm down, Jethro," Ducky said. "I think I should advise you to remember the pot and the kettle?"

Gibbs turned furious eyes on his friend. "This is not the same…" he ground out before he realized it actually was pretty similar—as if he hadn't been thinking that all along. He huffed out an angry breath. "Hell, Duck. I told Tony yesterday that I understood the pressure they're under."

"So what changed?" Ducky asked gently.

Icy blue eyes skittered away and then returned slowly. "What I didn't tell him," Gibbs admitted softly. "Ziva doesn't love him and he's only going to get hurt."

The doctor's eyes went sympathetic. "You really have grown to care deeply for him," he said, almost to himself. He raised his eyes to meet Gibbs'. "I find it rather interesting that you aren't professing the same fear for Ziva's heart."

Gibbs ignored the first statement—because he didn't like to admit even to himself how much Tony had come to mean to him. "I've read her jacket. She's handled scores of undercover ops like this."

"Ah," Ducky said. "And Anthony got his heart badly broken on the one he handled."

Gibbs ignored that, too, because his guilt was still too strong, his guilt that he hadn't seen through Tony's lies and given him the support his agent had desperately needed. He forcibly shoved aside images of a charred corpse in a burned-out Mustang. The old regret gave way to a fresher one and he found himself saying, "And I'm starting to doubt if Ziva is up for this kind of thing yet. I doubt we know the half of what she went through in captivity."

"Why do you doubt her ability to handle this?" Ducky prompted.

Gibbs ran a hand through his hair. "My gut."

Ducky waited.

"She had a nightmare and ended up screaming at Tony and punching him in the face."

Ducky waited.

"The way she's flaunting that they're having sex as if she doesn't care about getting caught."

Ducky continued to wait.

"She gave DiNozzo painkillers for his back even though she knows how he gets on them."

"And how very illegal it is to share controlled substances," Ducky said, frowning.

"Least of my worries, Duck."

Ducky nodded in agreement. "The biggest issue there is why they both would do such a thing." He paused. "How bad is Anthony's back? He must have been in quite a bit of pain to accept the pills in the first place."

"He's hurting," Gibbs said, feeling increasingly frustrated, but unable to put his finger on exactly why. "I don't know what he did to it, and I doubt it's serious, but he's definitely in pain."

Ducky thought for a moment. "I don't recall him mentioning having an accident of any sort in which he could have caused damage."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Like he'd tell us if he did." He saw Ducky waiting for something. "And I know Ziva's fine. The dayside agents told me about a neat little trick she and Tony pulled off flawlessly to taunt our suspect. Right before they were locking lips in a parking lot in full view of that suspect."

Ducky studied his friend for a long moment without speaking. "All right," he said, flipping his hand a few times in the air. "Out with it."

There was a long silence, but Ducky waited patiently.

Finally, Gibbs said, "He lied to me."

Ducky frowned hard. "So did she."

Gibbs just stood there in tight-lipped silence for a moment. "He admitted it. Hell, he sounded upset about it."

"Anthony hates lying to you, Jethro. He respects you too much to lie to you as easily as he lies to everyone else."

Gibbs knew that. It didn't make any of this any easier. And it didn't explain the nagging that still lingered in his gut.

Ducky sighed. "Come on, Jethro. Out with it," he said again.

Gibbs turned on his glare again.

"The rest of it, Jethro," Ducky said, exasperated. "What else is bothering you?"

"That's just it, Duck," the agent said, staring at the corpse on the table. "I have no idea."


	11. Chapter 11

The first thing Gibbs noticed when Tony and Ziva joined him and McGee at their daily meet was how rested they both looked compared with the day before. Gibbs shoved greenish images out of his head and figured McGee was doing the same since he was burying his nose in the menu of the cheap diner in Stafford, Virginia.

"Finally got some sleep," Gibbs commented.

"Slept like a rock," Ziva said, proud she had gotten the saying correct and ignoring the red faces around the table.

Tony noticed the awkwardness, too, and sighed dramatically. "Like a snoring rock," he said wryly. "With emphysema. And a head cold."

Gibbs ignored the theatrics, asking, "What do you think of your neighbor, Houser?"

Tony was still smiling—because the other option was running screaming from the tension at the table. "You mean the one I pulled a gun on?"

"Heard about that," Gibbs said. "There a good reason you said 'Freeze' instead of 'Hello'?"

Ziva answered for him. "We arrived back at the house and found him creeping through the bushes. He gave us a flier about a block party and a line about dropping it."

McGee asked, "Do you think it was just a line?"

Ziva shrugged. "I could not tell. He seemed genuinely nervous about the gun pointed at him, but that is a pretty natural reaction for most people."

Gibbs just looked at Tony, silently asking his opinion.

"I'm not sure either," Tony said. "The flier could have been a prop if he was casing the house. What've you got on him, McGoo?"

McGee flipped a file open. "Sam Houser, 46, never married, no kids. He's a drill instructor. I did find that his father was a serviceman who married a Korean woman after the war. Apparently she took Houser and his two older brothers from the home when they were just kids. He never saw his father again because the guy died before Houser could track him down. Houser spent a good bit of money trying to find him, though."

Tony nodded. "That's a decent motive for going after couples of mixed nationalities."

"Does not explain why he is beating the husbands first and making them watch," Ziva said thoughtfully.

"Might blame his father for not looking harder to find him and his brothers," Tony mused.

"I was thinking maybe something happened to the mother and Houser blamed his father for not being there to stop it," McGee said. "But there was nothing on record that I could find."

"Not all women report attacks," Ziva said, effectively resettling the shroud of tension over the table.

Gibbs broke it. "Why go after Middle Eastern women? Why not Koreans?"

"It's the current war," Tony said. "It's _his_ war."

They silently mulled that as the waitress approached to take their orders. As soon as she was gone, Tony asked, "Get anything else on Stone?"

McGee shook his head, looking annoyed. "No, several base servers are down and I can't check his schedule at the commissary. But I did get the file on the Marine who was mugged at Lejeune while Stone was there. Just in case there was any connection. The Marine's girlfriend," he consulted his notes, "Miriam Shaw, was the only witness to the attack and she didn't see much. I can't find much on her but I'm trying to track her down. Even though it's a longshot that Stone was even involved."

The frustration that they had nothing and were resorting to running down longshot leads hung heavily over the table.

"Figure out how this guy is getting in?" Tony asked, knowing the agents would have mentioned it if they had. But he was feeling like squirming under Gibbs' intense gaze. He figured it was better to do it verbally than physically.

"No idea," McGee confirmed. "No signs of forced entry, no reports of lost or stolen keys, no recent deliveries of appliances or anything like that. It's like the couples are just inviting this guy in."

"Still no connections among the families or friends of the couples?" Ziva asked, knowing McGee was spending the long nights running down information while Gibbs kept his eyes on them.

"None," McGee said, trying not to let his frustration show—or his mind wander to night-vision images of Ziva's bare back as she had straddled Tony in that bed.

The conversation stalled as their meals arrived and they ate mostly in silence. It did not go unnoticed that Ziva pushed her plate away after hardly eating a thing.

"Something wrong with that?" Gibbs asked bluntly.

Ziva shrugged. "I do not usually eat much for breakfast."

Tony gave her a friendly poke. "You're just scared of getting tubby because we won't let you go running."

She poked him back. "Tubby? No. Cranky?" She eyed him in a mock threat, then lifted a shoulder. "Maybe."

Gibbs watched the banter and tried to study both of his agents at the same time. "How're you both holding up?"

"Fine," Ziva answered automatically.

Tony took a moment longer because he was trying to remember if Gibbs had ever asked outright about his wellbeing. The closest he could come was Gibbs telling him he looked like crap and should take his medical leave after the plague, but Tony shoved aside the memories, not needing or particularly wanting to think about the subsequent death of his partner.

He swiped a napkin across his face and said, "Doing fine, Boss. This might just be my easiest undercover job yet. I mean, no one's even tried to slit my throat yet."

Gibbs just eyed him. "Yet."

"Uh, right, Boss," Tony said, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. "So, any specific plan for today?"

"Since we've only got two leads, I'd say get close to them again," Gibbs said. "Put a little more bait in the trap."

"Sure," Ziva said, thinking. "We can easily go to the commissary again—if Stone is working today."

McGee nodded. "Should be. He works day shifts."

"Getting up close and personal with Houser might be a little harder," Tony said, trying to work out a plan. He looked at McGee. "Too bad we don't have a dog to shit in his bushes."

"Uh-uh," McGee said, shaking his head. "Jethro doesn't do undercover."

Gibbs gave him a look, and the probie blushed ten shades of red. "Uh, my Jethro." He shot daggers at Tony, who was trying his best not to laugh.

"I guess it's time to go," Tony said. "I miss hanging out with you guys."

Gibbs met his eyes. "Yeah? Then find this bastard, DiNozzo, and you can hang out all you want." He paused. "While we catch the next bastard."

* * *

Ziva was mostly silent as Tony drove back to the base, just as she had been during the ride to the diner. He wondered how she managed to flip the switch so easily—not realizing that he did the same just as easily.

He shot her a glance, thankful their car wasn't wired. "You didn't give Gibbs a straight answer," he said, hurrying on and softening his tone when she took it as criticism. "Will you give me one?"

She folded her arms across her chest protectively. "Just because you gave me a pity fuck does not mean I owe you answers," she said caustically.

Tony's eyes shot from the road to hers and back again. "Ziva, I—"

She cut him off with a sigh. "I am sorry, Tony. That was just mean," she said sadly.

He saw the tears glistening in her dark eyes and mentally kicked himself for being so stupid. Just because she had let her guard down once and really talked to him didn't mean she was magically cured. She was still scarred—and in so many ways.

She soldiered on and he felt an odd little pride at the resolve in her words. "And I am sorry that I blackmailed you with suicide if you told Gibbs the truth." She put a hand on his arm and looked out the side window, the contradictory movements both comforting and alarming him at the same time. "I know how your mother died, Tony. I know she took her own life, and for me to threaten you like that… It was unforgivably cruel."

Tony focused on the light traffic to evade memories of finding his mother bleeding into her own bathwater, his tiny hands too small to cover the gruesome, gushing wounds. And to avoid images of Ziva taking her place in that bloody scene. He wanted to tell his partner that it was all right, but it wasn't—and he instinctively knew she wouldn't want him to lie to her.

"Would you do it, Ziva?" he asked, hoping he wouldn't have to actually verbalize the rest of the question.

There was a short silence and he opened his mouth to do just that when she finally spoke. "There was a time when I would have immediately said yes," she said softly. "But you knew that. You sat strapped to that chair, beaten bloody because of me, and I told you the truth then. I was ready to die."

He heard the guilt in her words. "I don't blame you, Ziva. Neither does McGee. We went there because of our own decisions." His voice lowered, tightened with pain. "We thought you were dead. _I_ thought you were dead."

He purposefully did not think about that night—not about the massive amount of alcohol he had tried to drown his demons in, and certainly not about the bottle of aspirin Gibbs had left on his desk the next morning, the look in those blue eyes embarrassingly comforting because Tony had known Gibbs knew there was no such cure for the pain he was feeling.

Ziva simply lifted a shoulder, unable find the words to respond to his anguished admission. "I am tired of talking about blame. I would like to move on," she said determinedly.

He nodded, wishing it were that simple—but also knowing that if anyone was strong enough to fight back from that kind of hell, it was Ziva.

They were quiet as they made their way through the main gate. The guard checked his ID and gave him a salute that made Tony feel slightly sick.

He didn't deserve it.

That guilt joined with the rest he had been feeling since giving in to Ziva's threats and not telling Gibbs to pull her from the assignment. He still didn't know if any of his decisions had been the right ones, and he surprised himself by admitting it.

"Is this situation making it worse?" he asked bluntly. "I feel like I should have made Gibbs pull you… and I feel like that would also be a huge mistake. I have no idea what I'm doing lately."

"You are just being a good friend, Tony," she said, skirting the real issue, her silence on that matter telling him she wouldn't—or perhaps couldn't—give him the answer he was looking for.

He smiled but his insides twisted painfully and he fought not to grimace at the nearly physical pain of his indecision. _Yeah, Ziva, I'm trying to be a good friend. _

_But should I be trying to be a better partner?_


	12. Chapter 12

Dustin Stone's face was already twisted into a snarl when Tony and Ziva walked into the commissary so it was hard to judge if their arms looped lovingly around each other affected him.

It was not hard to judge the reason for his displeasure—because he was yelling loudly at his manager.

"It's not fair! I was hired to work _day shifts_—not to be here until all hours of the night," he whined. "I've never worked one before and I'm not about to start now. It's not _fair_."

The manager just stared him down. "Life is not fair, Stone. _War _is not fair."

The agents shared a glance, both watching Stone's reaction while pretending to be studying labels on bags of chocolates.

And the clerk exploded. "All you fucking Marines think you're so fucking special!" he raged, swinging his arms wildly and sending a display of American flag pins clattering to the ground. "Well I say fuck you, Marine!"

The soldier just gave him a level look and said calmly, "Well then I say you're fired, Stone. You've got 24 hours to get off my _fucking _base."

Stone looked like he might take a swing but thought better of it, considering both the Marine's steely gaze and noticing that Tony was now openly watching them. The red-haired clerk stormed for the door, nearly knocking Ziva into a tall display case. Tony's hand shot out to steady her and they exchanged another glance.

The Marine was just shaking his head and then he called over to Tony, "Don't suppose you'd want to trade your MP badge for a clip-on nametag, would you?"

Tony matched his smile. "No thank you, sir. But I'll help you clean up that mess."

The man nodded to Ziva. "You got yourself a good Marine, there, ma'am."

Ziva touched Tony's arm. "The best, sir."

The Marine's smile faded as his gaze lingered on Ziva, and she suddenly remembered he had been second in command here under the man with the Middle Eastern wife who had been willingly shipped to San Diego. A look at Tony told her he was thinking the same thing. Both were thinking they were glad they had stayed to chat instead of running out after Stone as they had wanted to—but keeping their cover intact had been more important, a fact the agents agreed on without ever having said a word. And while Stone and Houser were two good suspects—Stone even more so now—neither Tony nor Ziva forgot that they had entire base full of potential suspects.

"And I'll get this," the Marine said, sighing. "Gonna be here all night anyway."

They were just about to go start helping clean up despite that when their two dayside backup agents entered the commissary. Tony and Ziva shared a look that said both were annoyed that the agents hadn't thought to wait until _after_ they had spoken with their potential new suspect—and both knew it was a mistake Gibbs and McGee would never have made.

"Tony? Ziva!" Agent Miguel Rios called out, as if spying friends unexpectedly.

"Hey, Ziva!" called Agent Rita Russell, giving a friendly wave.

Ziva just prayed they had the sense to remember to use the couple's fake last name.

"Sure?" Tony asked the Marine, who was scooping up flag pins by the handful.

"Sure," he said, waving him off. "Go see your friends."

Tony nodded and he and Ziva met the agents halfway in the store.

"Good to see you two," Tony said, wanting to get the hell out of there and find out what was going on.

Agent Russell gave Ziva a hug and Tony wanted to smack her even though she was just trying to sell the cover. "You should come over for dinner tonight," she said, speaking a little too loudly for Ziva's taste—and experience.

"That would be lovely," Ziva said, hoping the agent would catch on and match her mellower tone. "Follow us to our car so I can write down directions?"

Russell looked slightly confused—and perhaps even a little miffed that she wasn't going to get to play her role.

Tony caught Ziva's eye and grinned, covering smoothly. "Ziva's still getting used to getting around on base."

The "husbands" shared a "women and directions" look and the two pairs made their way to the door.

Ziva went through the motions of getting a pen and paper from the car before turning to Russell. "Would you mind writing them down? My carpal tunnel is acting up again."

Russell nodded and scribbled onto the sheet. "Of course," she said, adding a faked empathetic "you poor dear."

Ziva tried not to roll her eyes and half-listened to Tony and Agent Rios talking football while Russell wrote her message. "Thank you. You are such a sweetie," she said, smiling just as sweetly. "What time should we arrive?"

"How's seven sound?" Rios said, rejoining the conversation.

"Great," Tony said, giving the man a firm handshake. "See you then."

Ziva finally let out her giggle when they were alone in the car, watching Rios and Russell awkwardly link arms and pretend to be deep in a couple's conversation. "Can you imagine those two in our places?" she asked.

Tony groaned just thinking about it. "Rios is all right, but there are no Oscars in 'poor dear' Rita's future. Ouch."

Ziva put a hand on Tony's arm, suddenly serious. "It is a good thing we make a good team."

Tony wasn't sure what to make of the sudden shift in mood so he just smiled. "The best."

The words called up the Marine's and Ziva shivered lightly, remembering not liking the way he looked at her. "He gave me the creeps," she admitted.

Tony slid a sidelong glance at her. "Really?"

"Yes," she snapped, her anger blowing up suddenly like a summer squall. "But go ahead and question my judgment."

"Ziva—"

"No," she said, staring straight ahead in stony silence. "I am damaged and terrified of all men so I must just be overreacting. He was probably just annoyed that he had to cover Stone's shift."

Actually, that was exactly what Tony suspected of the Marine's dark look. But all he said was, "Are you terrified of me?"

The anger was gone when she said, "Never, Tony." She shook her head and he wondered what images she was erasing like an Etch-A-Sketch—him or the pigs who had hurt her. But then she said, "Do not regret last night. I don't."

He glanced at her again, trying to ignore her rare use of a contraction and trying to gauge her sincerity. _Should I regret this morning? Not telling Gibbs everything? Not getting you the help you need?_ When he thought about it that way, he found himself shocked that he had stayed silent. _Shit, I didn't even take the blades from her. _He felt that terrifying panic building in his chest, the physical ache that came with forgetting to pay an important bill or losing a wallet full of cash—only it was ten times stronger because the consequences were so much more than a late fee.

And then he imagined going to her apartment to check on her after she was put on medical leave—and finding her dead on the floor. Even if he told Gibbs, they couldn't force her to get help.

Oh sure, they could drag her kicking and screaming to a hospital and watch while the white coats shot her up with all sorts of drugs.

But she could only be helped if she wanted to, if she was ready to accept it—to accept that she needed it.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

He was so startled by the blunt question that he almost blurted the truth. But he pulled it together and said, "Wondering what Rios and Russell want."

"Oh," she said, holding up the sheet with Russell's handwritten message. "We are not having dinner with our friends Miguel and Rita. Tonight we dine with Jethro and Timothy."

* * *

Tony approached the meeting house, located far across the base, that night with a trepidation he couldn't quite place. Maybe it was because he had no idea what Gibbs and McGee wanted. More likely it was because it was finally sinking in that he and Ziva had actually had sex on camera in front of their teammates.

Real sex.

Not the faked kind as they had done in that hotel room years ago. Last night, with Ziva's hands on him, Tony had figured the agents would assume they were selling their cover again. In the cold light of day, he realized how insane that was. Hell, Gibbs had been married four times—the man could surely tell when someone was faking it. Tony was still shocked he had made it through breakfast without burying his face in his eggs to hide.

He was even more shocked that Gibbs had essentially ignored the issue. _Maybe he realized that Ziva's not as okay as we all thought she was? _ Tony thought. And then he kicked himself. _And maybe that's just a heaping helping of wishful thinking. You know why you're here tonight. _

The only thing he couldn't figure out was why Gibbs hadn't simply pulled them from the assignment that morning at their daily meet. If he was giving them another chance—and their killer another night to take the bait—then it made no sense to pull them now, at seven in the evening when it wasn't even dark yet.

A glance at Ziva told him she was feeling the same unease. He wondered if it was odd that he felt honored that she was letting it show for him.

Tony raised his hand to knock. "Ready?"

Ziva snorted delicately. "No," she said.

And then she knocked for him.

McGee opened the door, the nervous smile on his face not doing anything for the equally nervous twisting in Tony's stomach. He couldn't even come up with a decent McNickname and gave up, simply saying, "Hey. Where's Gibbs?"

The nervous smile grew slightly, watered and fed by Tony's own nerves.

"And what's for dinner?" Tony asked, forcing lightness. It was about as easy as a nun.

"I brought pizza," McGee said slowly, not surprised in the least when Ziva eyed him suspiciously.

It was a well-known fact that Gibbs preferred Chinese takeout.

Tony listened to the silent house for a moment. "Gibbs isn't here."

Ziva's eyes met his before moving on to McGee's. "And he is not coming."

The junior agent flushed and shook his head. "You're right. Both of you," he said, looking from one teammate to another. "I needed to talk to you two about your relationship and—"

"This is an intervention?" Tony interrupted, his voice slightly higher than was natural. "You staged a fucking _intervention_, ?"

"Tony," McGee said as calmly as he could. "Before you freak out—"

"Too late," Ziva whispered under her breath, watching Tony's hands shake.

McGee glared at her and then apparently thought better of it. "I just want to talk—"

"Whatever you think is wrong with us, Probie," Tony raged, "it's not going to matter once Gibbs finds out you went behind his back to contact us. He'll kill us all. And use our blood to stain his next boat. Are you insane, McGee?"

Tim didn't back down from Tony's frightening intensity. He kept his voice calm and said, "I'm worried, Tony. About both of you."

"Worried?" Tony yelled before Ziva could even open her mouth. "So am I, McGenius! Hi, my name is Tony and I'm worried that Gibbs is going to break down the door in a minute and murder us."

"Tony!" McGee said sharply. His tone went as steely as his partner's eyes. "Gibbs is home sleeping. Abby told me he went to see Ducky early this morning and didn't leave until just a few hours ago. And he's not due back at the other house for another hour."

"First," Tony countered, watching Ziva take a seat as if about to watch a movie, "Gibbs does not sleep. He lies in wait. Or passes out from too much bourbon. Second, how is it supposed to make me feel better that he talked to Ducky? He talks to Ducky when things are bothering him. Big things, Probie. So how is that helpful? And third, I knew you were hanging out with Abby a lot lately. Should Ziva and I be arranging an intervention for you two? Should we go _behind Gibbs' back_ and set one up?"

"Calm down, DiNozzo," McGee said, getting exasperated. "Gibbs won't know—"

Tony laughed—a bit hysterically. "If you believe that, McCrackhead, then _you're_ the one who's lost it."

"I asked Rios and Russell not to say anything—" McGee said, trying a different tack.

"And do you really think they'll hold up under a Gibbs interrogation special number nine? Shit, McShrink, _I _don't even hold up under Gibbs' interrogations. The man can get anyone to talk. He could get an ascetic monk to jabber away all through silent prayer hour." Tony's wide eyes flicked to Ziva. "Well, maybe _you_ have a shot in hell of getting out alive—but only because you can outrun him."

"Stop worrying about Gibbs and start worrying about you and your partner," McGee said, his tone adamantine.

And it stopped Tony cold in his shtick-filled tracks. A glance at Ziva showed that the probie had her attention, too.

"I'm worried about both of you because you seem to be forgetting that you're baiting a killer. What happens when you're too distracted by each other to notice the very skilled, very experienced murderer creeping up behind you? The second and third husbands had ligature marks on their necks," McGee said, a thin black nylon cord suddenly dangling from his hand. He looked Tony in the eyes. "What happens when he puts something like this around your throat and pulls, Tony?"

Tony didn't answer.

But Ziva finally joined the conversation. "I will have his back, McGee," she said confidently.

"No, Ziva, you won't," McGee said quietly, his eyes serious, "because this maniac will have already bound your hands, feet and mouth with duct tape and put you in the perfect position to watch him beat the shit out of Tony."

Neither Tony nor Ziva spoke.

So McGee continued. "But he won't kill you, Tony. Not yet. Because then he'll move on to Ziva—"

"Enough," Tony growled, his flashing eyes daring his teammate to disobey him.

It was a look McGee rarely saw from DiNozzo, but it was a warning he always heeded. At least ever since Tony had pulled him up against those jail cell bars and joked that "prison changes a man." Only Tony could pull off caged fury while making a joke of it. It reminded McGee of later that night when Gibbs had returned from his visit to that awful cage. McGee had asked a tentative, "How is he, Boss?" And Gibbs had answered, as could be expected, with one gruff word—but that word was the very last one McGee would ever have expected: "Scared."

That experience was the only reason that McGee recognized the dark emotion in Tony's eyes on this night so many years later. He saw the fear in DiNozzo's eyes, sure; but he didn't understand it.

"Seriously," McGee said, unsettled as much by that rare emotion as Tony's letting it show in the first place, "don't worry about Gibbs. If he finds outs, he'll be pissed at me. I'll tell him you had no idea what was going on."

"When, McGee," Tony said, drawing a confused look. He clarified, "_When_ Gibbs finds out. Not if."

"I'll tell him myself if you think it's such a big deal," McGee said. "He'll probably thank me for saying what he won't. Well, okay, he won't _thank _me, but you know what I mean."

Tony just stared blankly.

"He and Jenny," Ziva said, putting the pieces together. "Gibbs is not calling us out for our relationship because it is too similar to what happened between him and Jenny."

"Gibbs isn't a hypocrite," Tony said immediately—even though the contradictory phrases "You'll do" and "No man left behind" could have told him otherwise. Mostly he was thinking about how Gibbs' preoccupation with the similarities in the relationships—and the memories of his own relationship—were likely precluding him from seeing that passion wasn't the only thing simmering between his agents.

And with that, Tony lost all remaining hope that Gibbs would pull Ziva from the assignment on his own. It was painfully clear that only Tony would be the catalyst for that happening.

"And he's not going to tell you two to knock it the hell off and focus," McGee said, seeing Tony flinch and wondering how bad the pain in his back was. He ignored that and continued. "But I will. I'll lose one of you to another team because you're in love and want to have a relationship. But I damned sure won't lose you both to a killer because you were too busy making googly eyes at each to notice him creeping up behind you."


	13. Chapter 13

"Thank you, Tony," Ziva said once they were back in the car.

"For?" he asked, feeling suddenly exhausted.

Her dark eyes met his green ones. "For taking that from McGee and not telling him the truth."

Tony thought back to his many outbursts. "I did a lot more giving than taking," he said ruefully.

Ziva shook her head, her curly hair dancing around her head. "You covered for me."

Tony didn't speak, not even to acknowledge the gratitude.

"Why did you do it?" she asked, sounding completely perplexed. "Why _are you_ doing it?"

_Because I believe you when you say the job is your life. Because I know what that feels like—to be more devoted to stranger's corpses than your own living family. And for good reason. Because you said you once were ready to die—and because you did _not_ say that was no longer true. Because I've looked at you too many times over the past few days and seen my mother's face. _

"Because I didn't trust you with Rivkin," he said, speaking a truth—but not the right one. "Because I killed him and you might have loved him. Because the only reason you ended up in that Somali hellhole is because Gibbs chose me."

She took a moment to speak but there was no hesitation in her voice when she did. "You were right not to trust me with Michael. You killed him before he killed you. Yes, I might have loved _him_, but I did not, could not love what he _was._ And Gibbs only had to choose because I made him choose."

All the talk about Jenny propelled her words. "You are very good at taking blame, Tony, but you need to learn to hand it out, too, when it is due." She studied his stone face, knowing he wasn't going to speak. "I will do it for you this time, okay? I treated you horribly during the whole disaster with Michael, and I now know that you were only trying to have my back. And I threw that in your face in Israel. I dropped you onto that concrete knowing full well that you were injured—injured because you were trying to protect _me._ I put…"

She trailed off, disgusted with what she had done.

"Ziva, you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," she countered. "I did this a thousand times in that cell in Africa. I am not the only one who was hurt during all this."

"Ziva," he said again, this time incredulous. "A broken arm and some bruises don't even begin to compare—"

"Tony, please," she said calmly. "Let me do this? I need to do this. For you. For me. For us so that we can put this behind us and start to move on."

He couldn't really argue with that, so he simply stayed silent.

"I put a gun to your chest," she said slowly, her words as pain-filled as his broken arm had been that day. "I put a _loaded_ gun to your chest, and I said hateful, hurtful things to you that I would do anything to able to take back. But I cannot. The best I can do is apologize to you for that, Tony, and I will. I am so sorry I hurt you. But even more than that, I am sorry that I did not trust you. I have already forgiven whatever mistakes you might have made then. But I will understand if you cannot forgive me."

Suddenly he was cupping her face with his large hands and she realized he had pulled the car over—a long time ago.

"Of course I forgive you, Ziva. You're my partner. That's what partners do."

She smiled as he thumbed away the tears that streaked down her cheeks. He frowned a little and released her, reaching over her to rummage in the glove box.

"I'll always have your back, Ziva. Always." He handed her the tissue and smiled, his megawatt grin lighting his eyes. "But I draw the line at wiping your nose. That's all you, kid."

* * *

Later that night, Tony lay on top of the covers on the bed, fighting now-familiar images that still managed to turn his stomach while he waited for Ziva to finish up in the bathroom.

He suppressed a sigh of relief when she finally emerged.

But then he watched as she tossed the towel in her hand over the camera in the corner of the room. He knew it would not only block the images but also dampen their voices if they spoke softly enough. He felt a tightness in his throat as she approached him, and he wondered how to tell her he couldn't have sex with her again. He still couldn't decide if it had been a mistake to do so in the first place, but he did know he couldn't do it again. He wasn't in love with her, she wasn't in love with him—but more than that, he just couldn't take the risk that it would do more harm than good for his scarred partner.

He opened his mouth to begin to try to explain that but then he stopped cold when he saw the razor blades in her hand.

He sat up immediately, wincing not at the pain in his back but at the anguish in her eyes.

"Here," she said softly, sitting on the bed beside him. He didn't move to take them so she reached out, took his wrist and turned his hand palm-up, placing the blades carefully there. "I do not need them anymore."

"Ziva—"

She sighed. "I do not _want_ to need them anymore. Those are all of them," she said, releasing his wrist. "And I will not find substitutes."

He stared at the sharp edges of the blades resting lightly in his hand but did not speak.

"Throw them away. Or hide them," she said, figuring he wasn't sure what to do with them.

But he shook his head slowly and reached over to place them in the nightstand drawer. He looked back to her face and saw the tears shimmering unshed in her eyes even before he said, "I trust you, Ziva."

She sighed heavily, her eyes flicking to the drawer as if she wasn't sure she trusted herself.

"Thank you," Tony said, knowing how big a step she had made. He debated his next words but said them anyway, having seen the glance. "Will you find someone to talk to? When we get out of here?"

She stayed silent, and he deemed that a good thing. He knew her, knew she was a damned good liar, and an immediate answer would have spooked him. Of course, there was a chance that she knew that, too, but he believed her when she finally did answer.

"Yes, Tony, I will."

He smiled at her, hoping with everything he had that she really would. And this time, he wouldn't make the mistake of assuming she was fine.

He watched as she got up and removed the towel with a smile and an "Oops" that they both knew wouldn't fool anyone. But he didn't care because the smile was genuine and the levity unforced. Tony moved to get up to go to his position on the floor, but she shook her head.

"Stay," she said, and he felt his unease creeping up again. But then she continued, climbing into bed without removing her polka-dot pajama pants or the matching bright-green tank top, "Just stay close to me?"

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief and nodded, settling in next to her. He was debating putting an arm around her and had just decided not to when she rolled toward him, laying her head on his shoulder and letting her hand rest on his chest.

She looked up at him, studying his face. "Okay?" she whispered.

As if he could really shove her away.

"Okay," he said, nodding and resisting the urge to plant a friendly kiss into her hair. "Goodnight, Ziva."

"Goodnight, Tony."

* * *

Tony awoke the next morning alone in bed, knowing he had slept better than any other night he had spent in the house. He knew part of it was because the bed was much more comfortable than the floor, but it was also because he knew Ziva had slept through the night. It didn't mean she didn't have the nightmares that had been plaguing her, but if she had, she had been able to get through them without panicking.

He looked around the room and was surprised to find his partner curled in a chair in the corner, watching him blink his way back to consciousness. Slightly unnerved that she had obviously been watching him sleep, he gave her a grin and said, "Nice PJs."

She smiled back but there were shadows in her eyes. "A gift from Abby. When I first got back, I had nothing. I remember walking into her apartment and she had a bag waiting for me. These were the first thing I pulled out and I practically lived in them while I stayed with her. She was so good to me, making me eat, making me go out and do things when all I wanted was to curl up and forget everything."

Tony smiled at her soft smile. "Abby's pretty amazing." He winced. "I'm sorry I didn't offer to let you stay with me… after. I'm ashamed to admit I had no idea where you were staying."

Ziva shrugged. "I would not have accepted," she said simply, ignoring anything else that might need to be said between them on that because of the microphone in the room with them. "How is your back this morning?"

She saw the flash of annoyance in his eyes and realized that subject should probably have been addressed off-camera as well.

But all he said was, "Fine."

And she let the lie go, getting up and heading for the door to give him some privacy. "I am making breakfast today. Omelet?"

He nodded. "Sure. Thanks. I'll be right down."

"Take your time," she said, turning back at the door with a teasing smile. "I think the only place you are quicker than me with a knife is in the kitchen."

He smiled back as she left the room but all he could see were those thin red lines on her thigh. He shook off the images and went to shower and get ready for the day, wondering just what kind of day it was going to be.

He got his first clue when he walked into the kitchen to Ziva humming softly as she set plates on the small kitchen table. The bright smile she gave him eased his guilt, but he didn't let it bring too much comfort because he knew she was a master at covering her emotions. There was reason she was here with him in this house, playing couple to bait a killer.

"Smells amazing," he commented, sniffing appreciatively as she served the omelets. He waited for her to sit and then tried the eggs. "Tastes even better."

"Thank you," she said with a self-conscious little smile, "but yours are better."

He shrugged. "Everything tastes better when you don't have to make it yourself."

They chatted while they finished eating and cleaned up the kitchen, and they were just heading for the door to leave for the meet, this time scheduled for a chain restaurant in Fredericksburg, when a thump at the front door put them both on high alert. With guns automatically in hand, they crept toward the foyer, silently communicating their positions and intents as if they had never been apart.

Ziva grasped the doorknob and met Tony's eyes, waiting for his nod to pull the door open and watching him clear the porch quickly and efficiently. She saw his grin as he reached down and picked up the newspaper before returning inside.

He skimmed the headline about rising obesity rates in America and handed it to his partner. "We really shouldn't be too embarrassed," he said, still grinning. "It _is_ bad news."

Ziva rolled her eyes and took the paper, quickly sifting through it until she found what she was half-looking for. She met Tony's eyes and then looked down and read the single sheet of paper tucked into the classified section.

"Meet changed. 10050 Artillery Drive, 0900."

The agents shared an uneasy look. "Wonder why Gibbs changed it," Tony finally said.

Ziva lifted a shoulder as if to say she didn't care. Her eyes said otherwise.

Tony checked the clock and shrugged, too. "Let's go find out."


	14. Chapter 14

There's a moment in the making of every decision—whether realized or not—when the decision is suddenly made and an invisible weight is lifted. It's often freeing. And even though, as with all difficult choices, there are consequences to be dealt with, there is still relief because that weight of indecision is gone.

As Gibbs sat at a table in the otherwise empty house on base watching his agents eye him nervously, he knew he had made the right decision.

But there was work to do first.

"… finally got into the servers that have been down," McGee was saying, sounding dejected. "Stone can't be the killer. He was working on the nights of the previous three murders."

Tony and Ziva exchanged a glance and grinned.

Gibbs almost smacked them both. "You do realize losing our best suspect is bad news, right?" he growled.

"Yes, it would be," Ziva began.

And Tony finished for her, "Except that your 'bad news' probably makes Stone our killer."

"Explain," Gibbs barked, not in the mood for games.

"Did you hear all of Stone's outburst in the commissary yesterday?" Tony asked, still grinning.

"DiNozzo—" Gibbs began, growling his agent's name in warning.

"Gibbs," Ziva said, smiling too, "Stone said he had never worked a night shift before and he was not going to start. Either he lied to his supervisor—which is unlikely because the man would know his schedule—or…"

"Or he changed his work logs," McGee finished for her. He shook his head, disgust on his face. "The servers weren't down because there was a problem. He _took them down_ in case someone checked. I'm sorry, guys, I should have—"

"Don't apologize," Gibbs said.

"Right," said McGee. "Won't happen again."

"How hard is that to do?" Tony asked, his good humor fading as he realized their evidence was still only circumstantial—and that this guy might have an accomplice.

"Not easy," McGee said, thinking.

Tony frowned. "If he has all these computer skills, why is he working for little more than minimum wage at the base commissary?"

"Where'd he get those skills," Gibbs asked. "His file says he's only got a high school diploma."

"Hell," McGee said, flipping through papers. "He spends a ton of time online. It wouldn't be easy, but he could probably find everything he needed to do it from websites and online manuals. You can find anything online these days, from making a pipe bomb to pirated movies released in theaters last week to Martha Stewart's top-secret recipes, I bet."

"What now, Boss?" Tony asked. "How do we find him?"

"We let him find you. Go back to the house. Stone's only got until tonight on his 24-hour deadline to clear out, and I want to give him as much of a shot at you as possible," Gibbs answered, taking pride in the fact that neither of his agents batted an eye at that.

Tony stood with a nod, ready to head back to the house.

But Gibbs apparently had other ideas. "DiNozzo, with me."

Gibbs didn't miss the look that passed between the agents, but he didn't care. There was work to do. He led the way down the hall, watching Tony flinch when he opened the door to the basement.

"Doubt there's a boat down there, Boss," Tony said, trying to smile.

Gibbs did smile—just for a second before simultaneously cursing and applauding Tony's irrepressible personality. _DiNozzo's personality_, he corrected, knowing this would be a lot easier if he went into it as a supervisory agent instead of as a friend.

The basement was nothing like Gibbs', but the open rafters above his head had Tony suddenly feeling slightly better. He couldn't decide if Gibbs had planned that or not.

"What's on your mind, Gibbs?" he asked, echoing the question he was usually on the receiving end of when he found himself upset and in a basement.

Gibbs studied him for a moment, annoyed that this was one of those times when he couldn't read his agent's expression. But Gibbs, being Gibbs, just said bluntly, "You lying to me, for one."

Gibbs did read the pain in Tony's expression then—easily. It made Gibbs suddenly long for bourbon that carried the faint tang of discarded metal.

"I…" Tony stopped, knowing an apology was out of the question.

Gibbs just watched him for a moment, seeing the misery in Tony's eyes and wondering where his anger had gone. "Want to tell me why you did it?" he offered, expecting that to lift some of the pain from his agent's gaze.

It didn't. If anything, Tony looked even more upset.

"Hell, DiNozzo," Gibbs said when it was obvious Tony wasn't going to say anything. "I meant it when I said I understood, but that didn't mean I was giving you permission."

"I know," Tony said quietly, looking away. "I didn't want to do it."

Gibbs made a sharp sound of disgust that brought Tony's anguished green eyes back up just as sharply. Gibbs ignored the look. "So now you're just gonna lie to my face? I trusted you, DiNozzo."

The past tense of that was not lost on either of them, and Gibbs was suddenly regretting his words. Like coaxing a stray to come closer, it had taken him a long time to gain Tony's trust, realizing that it was only going to happen if the feeling was mutual.

But Gibbs the agent took over, sensing both from DiNozzo's silence and his starting to turn away that he was still withholding something. So Gibbs reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him around until they were face to face. He was shocked by the fear he saw there.

"Tony," Gibbs said softly, releasing him immediately. "Yeah I'm pissed. But I wouldn't hurt you."

Tony surprised him by laughing unsteadily. "I know," he said, surprised both that Gibbs had said that out loud and that his boss had misread the source of his fear.

"Then goddammit," Gibbs growled, having moved far away enough to be angry again, "_talk_ to me. What the hell are you hiding from me?"

"I…"

"Speak, DiNozzo."

Tony ground his palms into his eye sockets, suddenly wanting to go home and collapse into his own bed—alone—and sleep for a few days. "I _want _to tell you, Boss. Don't you get that?" he said, his face going immediately red as his voice cracked.

And suddenly Gibbs did get it. Everything. All of it.

"Hell, Tony," he said softly, realizing that he had been so caught up in his memories of Jenny and his confidence that he was right about Tony and Ziva sleeping together that he had actually been completely wrong. "The nightmares, the mood swings. Her hitting you. Abby?"

Tony nodded his confirmation, unable to speak through his warring relief and lingering guilt. Even the acknowledgment felt like a betrayal of Ziva's trust.

"I wasn't really listening when she was going on about the camera," Gibbs said, shaking his head. "And I believed her when she said she could report on how bad your back is because she knows you and I trust her. But I'm guessing she was more focused on Ziva."

Tony nodded, hoping Gibbs wasn't going to press him for details on his partner. It was one thing for Gibbs to figure it out on his own, but it was another to offer up information without being asked.

"What did you do to it?" Gibbs asked.

Tony had to think for a moment about what he was talking about. "I was helping a friend move last week. Just moved wrong. It's fine."

Gibbs nodded, wondering if it was the truth. "You should stop sleeping on the floor," he said mildly.

Tony shook his head. "I'd rather our sleeping arrangements be hard on me than on Ziva."

"There's always the couch, Tony," Gibbs said, sounding rather patient—and also a little amused. "It would not be the first time a husband spent a night on the sofa. Believe me."

Tony didn't smile, and suddenly the gravity of what he had said struck Gibbs hard.

"How bad is she?"

And there it was. The question Tony had been anticipating, hoping for, dreading. He knew that even if Gibbs forgave him his past lies, there would be no fixing the shattered trust if Tony chose to lie at this moment. And if anything were to happen with the op…

"It's bad, Boss."

Tony looked as surprised by the words as Gibbs did. And then he backpedaled. "Only sometimes, though," he said, sinking down onto the step and wishing it were covered in fine sawdust. "Sometimes she's perfectly fine... Or seems fine."

"Details, DiNozzo, and don't lie to me," Gibbs barked. And then he really looked at Tony's face. And he saw just how hard keeping Ziva's secret while in the middle of a dangerous undercover assignment had been on him. Gibbs watched Tony's head drop into his hands as the agent took a shuddery breath. Gibbs said, much more gently, "You're not ratting her out, Tony, if she needs to be pulled."

Tony didn't lift his head. "I should never have let it go this far."

Gibbs still couldn't quite figure out why Tony had, but he didn't ask right away because Tony looked about to break. "No harm done yet," he offered, watching Tony's head snap up. Gibbs winced at the healing split lip. "Except to you. At least you don't have to beat yourself up over this."

"This isn't funny, Gibbs," Tony snapped. He checked himself, the guilt creeping back into his tone when he continued, "I slept with her, for fuck's sake. She's taking razor blades to her thighs and threatening me with suicide if I say anything, and then I go and let her fuck me, thinking it's going to help her. What the hell is wrong with me, Boss?"

Gibbs heard Tony's voice crack again and suddenly wanted to touch him—but he knew it would only upset him more. And Gibbs realized that while he had thought he got it before, he really got it now. The revelation about the cutting was deeply disturbing, but it was not what Gibbs addressed first. There was anger in his tone as he huffed out his agent's name.

But Tony cut him off. "I know I fucked up, Gibbs—"

"Tony." Still angry.

"And you have every right to be pissed at me—"

"Tony." A bit softer.

"You'll have my resignation on your desk first thing in the morning—"

"DiNozzo!" Back to angry.

"If you want to fire me first, I'll understand—"

"Dammit, Tony." Gently.

And that got Tony's attention.

There was a wealth of pain in the green eyes watching him, and Gibbs continued in the same rare gentle tone. "You're not getting fired. Or resigning. Yeah you messed up, but we'll get to that. First, Ziva knows exactly how your mother died, and she should never have threatened you with that. You didn't deserve that, Tony."

Tony's gaze had dropped to his shoes again, and Gibbs could see that he was struggling to hold it together so he moved on quickly. "That explains why you lied," Gibbs said, letting Tony know with his tone that he really did understand just how hard that had been for him. He hesitated a moment and then asked, "But why did you sleep with her, Tony? You know she doesn't love you."

That was a truth only a friend could deliver, and Gibbs knew that even though he was trying to keep this strictly about the job, that just wasn't going to be possible. They had worked together too long, shared too many beers outside of work. Gibbs had watched Tony storm off with tears streaming down his face after they watched Paula Cassidy die together; Tony still sat on his boss's front porch from dusk until dawn once a year, knowing Gibbs wasn't going to let him in—but also knowing that a certain something else wasn't going to happen either as long as he sat out there watching the sun set and then rise again.

There were plenty of examples, and Gibbs held on to his gentle tone when he asked, "Do you love her?"

"No," Tony said without hesitation. "Not like that."

Gibbs breathed a sigh of relief at that—for a variety of reasons. "So why?" he asked softly. He paused for only a second. "And why the hell didn't you use protection?"

"She's been all over me," Tony admitted, unable to have a safe-sex talk with his boss but feeling oddly touched by the concern. He didn't think Gibbs was actually expecting an answer on that so he just said, "As if you haven't been watching us."

Gibbs' tone finally ventured back toward anger. "Don't you dare tell me you just couldn't say no. I know you—despite how impossible you try to make it."

Tony was silent for a long moment. "I really couldn't," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. He saw the look and continued, "Not after hearing her tell Abby she just wanted to feel normal again. Not knowing that if I rejected her, I would just be reinforcing that no one could want her because she's 'damaged goods.' Not after hearing her tell me… I can't, Boss. I won't lie you, but I can't repeat that."

Gibbs studied the pain, the guilt, the regret, and just said, "Not asking you to, Tony." He paused, finally stepping closer and laying a hand on Tony's shoulder. He gave a firm squeeze and said, "Thank you."

Gibbs heard the shuddery breath Tony released, but he didn't say anything.

Tony looked up and asked, "What now?"

"How bad is the cutting?"

Tony flinched. "Shallow cuts, not many, but she's been doing it long enough to have plenty of healed scars." Feeling again like a traitor, he kept his eyes glued to the floor. "You're going to pull her."

"Don't have a choice, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, his frustration evident.

"Stone's going to bolt, if he's not already gone," Tony said, his disgust at that also evident.

"DiNozzo—"

"Boss, do you trust me?" Tony asked, looking up and meeting the icy blue eyes suddenly burning into his. "Did you? Ever?"

"Don't ask me that, Tony," Gibbs said, sighing. "You know I did. You know I do."

"Then give us another night."

"No."

"Gibbs, will you at least listen to me?" Tony asked evenly.

Gibbs frowned hard but eventually waved a hand.

Tony took that as a yes. "She gave me the razor blades last night—"

"And there's houseful of knives—"

"Gibbs." Tony waited until Gibbs was looking at him again. "She said she wouldn't. You trusted me, I lied to you, and you know what? You just said you still trust me. She went through more of a hell in Africa than I had even imagined. But she talked to me about it, finally. And she said she would find someone to talk to when this is all over."

"Gonna be hard if she's dead."

Tony's flinch wasn't unexpected.

"And imagine what'll happen to her if you get yourself killed."

Tony just stared back steadily. "She's still Ziva, Gibbs. She's been wadded up, thrown out, ripped apart and spot-welded back together. You know that and I know that. But you know what else I know? She came back, Boss. Not because she didn't have anywhere else to go. I don't believe that and I know you don't either. She came back because she is this job. She's still a highly trained operative. She still has the experience and she still has the instincts. She still has the heart.

"She's still Ziva, Boss."

Gibbs was silent for a moment. "What do you want, DiNozzo?"

"Give us the night. I think Stone's long gone, but if he's not, if he is our killer, then we can still get him. There won't be another chance."

Gibbs just studied his agent, knowing Tony had dropped the masks and was letting him see the real DiNozzo. And what Gibbs saw was the best young agent he had ever worked with staring steadily back at him.

"You've got until midnight. You two aren't sleeping in that house again," Gibbs finally said. He saw the flash in Tony's eyes and said, "Because of her nightmares, Tony, not because I don't trust you."

* * *

Tony and Ziva got back in the car.

Before the doors were even closed, Ziva said, "He knows."

Tony didn't try to pretend to misunderstand. "He knows about the nightmares and about the cutting. I didn't tell him anything else."

He saw her stiffen and knew she was deeply ashamed of that cutting, but she offered no sharp retort, no stinging comment. She simply nodded. "I know I need to get help."

If he was surprised by that statement, he didn't show it. "And I'll help you get it." He paused slightly, giving her a gentle smile. "Or I'll stay the hell out of it, if that's what you want. I trust you, Ziva."

She smiled a soft smile back at him. "I trust you, too, Tony."

And then they returned to the house for a long, long wait.


	15. Chapter 15

Gibbs sent McGee home to sleep with orders to return for a short night at 1700. The lead agent intended on doing the same even though he was reluctant to leave Tony and Ziva in the care of Agents Russell and Rios—not because they were bad agents, but simply because they weren't _his_ agents. But Gibbs knew he was no good to anyone if he was dead tired, and he also knew the killer's patterns of striking at night and planned on being back long before dark—and long before Stone's 24-hour deadline expired.

Gibbs slept fitfully for several hours before giving up and heading back to the Navy Yard on his way back to the base some thirty miles to the south. His gut had been churning ever since his conversation with Tony that morning and it was no wonder he practically stormed Abby's lab.

Some god-awful music was blaring and Gibbs cut it quickly with an angry swipe of his hand.

"Hey!" Abby cried, whipping around on her swivel stool. "I was listening to that."

"Now you're listening to me," Gibbs said, watching the Goth's eyes go wide at his tone. "Now you're _answering _me. Why did you go to the house?"

The only reason Abby gave the answer she did was because it was a partial truth. "I've been watching the surveillance footage, and I know Tony's in pain. I couldn't tell how bad so—"

"So you lied to me about a camera and went behind my back—"

"No, Gibbs," Abby said, standing instead of backing down to his furious tone. "You said I could go. I'm sorry that I lied to you, but it doesn't matter why I went. You let me go."

"Because I was worried about a faulty camera screwing an important operation," he said, sparks flying from his blue eyes.

Abby's hands flew up in an angry flutter of motion. Gibbs made out a few succinct signs but he listened to her words.

"Now who's lying, Gibbs?" she cried, incredulous. "Or giving half-truths? You knew Tony was hurting, too, and you were worried about _him_."

Gibbs didn't confirm or deny that. He just dropped his tone to match the iciness in his eyes. "Turns out I should have been more worried about Ziva." He paused, watching her reaction closely. "But you knew that."

He expected her to finally back down so he was taken aback when the fury rose in her usually cool green gaze. "So you came down here and asked me that, knowing the answer? Trying to catch me in a lie? You're not my jealous lover, Gibbs. You're my boss. And they're my teammates—and even though I absolutely hate lying to you, I'll do whatever it takes to protect them."

Gibbs fumed, and it took him several long, silent moments to realize that it was himself he was pissed at, not Abby. Tony and Ziva had no business being in that house. Gibbs knew he should have pulled them the minute he even suspected they were having sex or felt the first nagging in his gut that something wasn't right, but he had let his own experiences with Jenny cloud his judgment. Just as he had let Tony use his burning need to catch a killer further muddy the issue.

He pulled Abby into a hug and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm sorry, Abbs."

He ignored her stunned shock and pulled his cell from his pocket, about to call the house and tell Tony and Ziva to get the hell out of there.

But the phone in his hand was already ringing.

"Boss, we've got two more bodies."

Gibbs felt the pain, guilt and regret like a body blow, and he put a hand on Abby's work station to steady himself enough to hear McGee tell him Tony and Ziva were dead.

"Another couple," McGee was saying, and Gibbs realized he sounded too calm to be talking about his teammates. "It's another Marine—"

"No shit, McGee."

"—and his Korean wife," McGee finished. "Boss, what if it's not Stone? What if Houser is the killer?"

"There were no murders while he was away," Gibbs said, remembering. "And with his family situation, he's got motive. But why change his MO and kill during the day?"

There was a slight pause, and Gibbs knew he wasn't going to like whatever McGee was going to say.

"MPs at the scene said the bodies are stone-cold and were still dressed for bed," he answered. "I'm thinking they were killed last night."

Gibbs growled in frustration and then said, "Those MPs better not touch that scene. If it is still Stone, then it's likely his last for a while. We need to go work it. Where are you, McGee?"

"Squad room, Boss," McGee said. "I thought I could start trying to figure out where Stone might go if he left without killing."

Gibbs almost smiled at his agent's dedication. "That's good thinking, Tim."

"Not if Houser is the killer," McGee said, feeling resigned and frustrated—and tired.

"Sooner we get there, sooner we find this bastard. I'm downstairs. Meet me in the garage," Gibbs ordered. "And call Russell and Rios and fill them in on your way down."

Gibbs hung up and started out the door, barely hearing Abby's call of "Be safe, Bossman" as he dialed the secure cell phone Tony and Ziva had in the house where they were playing sitting ducks.

Tony picked it up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"It's me," Gibbs said. "We've got another dead couple. Korean wife this time, probably killed last night. Can you get eyes on Houser?"

Tony answered immediately. "He was leaving as we were getting back this morning. We've been watching for him all day—since there's nothing else to do—but he hasn't come back."

"Damn," Gibbs swore. "McGee and I are on our way to process the scene now."

"Do you want us to come help?" Ziva asked. "Or do you think we should stay here and keep up appearances?"

Gibbs thought for a moment, abandoning his panicked thoughts of pulling them because of the steadiness in his agents' voices. There was a reason he had chosen these two for this assignment. "Sit tight," he said. "If it is Stone, then he might go for one last kill before his deadline is up, and that's our last chance to grab him before he's in the wind."

"Got it, Boss," Tony said.

McGee came flying into the garage and Gibbs knew something was wrong even before he spoke.

"I can't reach Russell and Rios," he said, his slight panting a dead giveaway that he had sprinted down the stairs instead of waiting for an elevator. "Not cells, not the house line, nothing. I even tried emails."

The men jumped into the car and Gibbs was dialing again as he flew out of the parking lot.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said as soon as he answered. "Rios and Russell aren't answering phones. Get down to the post now."

Gibbs heard scrambling and he added, "I'll send base MPs, too, but you watch your backs, you hear me? There's a good chance this guy—whether it's Stone or Houser—either made you, the post or protection details on the other couples. Be careful, both of you."

Gibbs hung up and focused on slicing through the late afternoon traffic on Interstate 95, using the wide shoulders of the highway more often than the lanes, which were clogged with commuters headed from their DC jobs to cheaper housing to the south.

McGee was silent for a while, possibly praying, and he finally said, "They're gonna be okay, right, Boss?"

Gibbs didn't know which agents he was referring to, but he cut across three lanes of slow-moving traffic with nary a blink of a signal and said, "They'd better be, McGee."

* * *

Ziva didn't bother to grab her holster as she dashed for the door and just stuck the gun in the waistband of her jeans and let her loose shirt drape over it. She was glad she still had the knife strapped to her ankle, but she stopped short as Tony put a hand flat on the door as she tried to yank it open.

"Tony," she hissed. "There are agents in trouble. What are you doing?"

"And there may be a murdering rapist holding them," Tony said evenly, his eyes boring into hers. "Can you handle this?"

She nodded. "Absolutely," she said, showing just the tiniest hint of her old devilish smile. "I was made for this."

And then he nodded, too, and stepped back, letting her out the door just ahead of him. They raced down the street, but they both flicked glances at Houser's silent home, wondering if he or Stone or some other yet unknown suspect was lying in wait for them.

They found the front door cracked slightly open, and they took their positions on either side, sliding easily into silent communication again. The agents made their entry and cleared the front of the house quickly, leaving the back room with the surveillance equipment for last.

Both noticed and ignored the obvious blood trail leading out the back door, knowing they needed to clear the house first, so it wasn't really much of a surprise when Tony kicked in the post door and found Special Agent Miguel Rios' lifeless eyes staring back at them. It wasn't surprising, but Tony swore loudly and Ziva's hand came up to her mouth briefly before she moved forward to take a pulse that obviously wasn't there.

Half the man's head had been caved in.

Tony guessed the weapon had been a bat or a pipe of some sort, but it wasn't left behind. The agents backed out of the room and went to the blood trail, exchanging a quick glance that said they were not waiting for backup to follow it.

They both had enough experience to know that whoever had left that trail did not have much time left to live.

They lost the trail in the grass but immediately picked up the puddles standing out starkly in the middle of the concrete driveway of the house next door, just behind a large SUV.

They exchanged a glance, silently communicating that this could well be a trap. Tony could think of only one other reason for their killer to drag the injured female agent into an adjacent house—and only one reason why he might not notice the copious amount of blood she was trailing behind.

But that wasn't what he said. "She'll be dead before those MPs get here."

Ziva's eyes flicked to the vehicle. "And if someone is home, they are in danger, too."

They nodded, both thinking but not needing to verbalize that if they had spotted the blood so easily, their backup would too. Any remaining doubts were erased as a woman's scream split through the air. Neither could place it as Russell's or some unfortunate stranger's, but it was clear they could no longer just sit and wait. Their eyes met and they both headed for the back door of the home—the opposite direction of the blood trail as they hoped to gain some sort of advantage.

That hope was erased as Ziva followed Tony through the door—and then watched him crumple to the floor as the Taser flashed out of the shadows and made sparking contact with the side of his neck. Ziva's eyes were still adjusting to the unnatural darkness of the house so she fired a quick round in the vicinity of the flash.

She got a shriek of pain in reward for her excellent aim and quick reflexes.

Ziva hopped nimbly over her unconscious partner's body, still trying to get her eyes to adjust so she could find the assailant in the blackness created by a combination of heavy drapes and mini-blinds covering the windows. She feinted left, keeping her body low but moving away from Tony to keep him from catching a stray bullet aimed at her.

But the killer wasn't firing, and Ziva could tell by his ragged breathing that she had scored a decent hit, likely to his gun hand. Afraid that the man would put a bullet in Tony anyway, Ziva took the chance that the killer had yet to switch the gun to his uninjured hand and she leapt at his shadowy form, feeling her small body collide with his much larger one.

There was a combined "oomph" as they hit the floor, but Ziva wasted no time in driving an elbow into the killer's gut from where she lay on her back beside him. She felt a thrill of satisfaction at his wheezy grunt and tried to land a similar blow.

But he anticipated her movement and slid slightly sideways so her elbow came crashing down onto hard linoleum instead of soft flesh. She bit off her cry of pain and tried to sit up, but the man was suddenly on top of her, his large body covering her small one and pinning her to the floor.

His breath puffed hot and rancid across her face and she began to shake even before the pig spoke. "We're gonna have a real good time tonight, aren't we, pretty baby?"

The highly-trained agent part of her mind registered the red hair in the dim light and recognized the voice as Dustin Stone's.

But the terrified woman lying trapped beneath a rapist's body felt only the man's penis twitching against her thigh in anticipation of his threats, and suddenly Ziva was transported back to a dirty cell in Somalia. Her panic consumed her, memories and terrifying premonitions swirling around her as if she were standing in the eye of a tornado, just waiting to be swept away by the pain and fear.

And then Tony moaned in the darkness, the soft sound from her partner bringing Ziva firmly back into the present. She breathed deeply once to try to clear the panic—and again when she realized she could smell the faint clean scent of Tony's shampoo over the reeking breath on her face.

Ziva channeled her earlier panic, whipping it into a rage as fierce as a F5 twister. She pulled all of her hatred toward her captors—past and present—and twisted slightly before ramming a knee up into Stone's hard cock. He screamed and she took advantage of his curling into a ball to scramble up and find his gun in the darkness, but hers was lost to the shadows and their violent collision earlier.

Just as she turned to locate her target again, the overhead lights blinked on, momentarily blinding eyes that had become attuned to the blackness. Ziva brought the gun up and turned to face the presence she felt behind her, knowing neither Tony nor Stone would have recovered enough to stand.

Before she could even begin to think about whether this newcomer was friend or foe, something hard connected with her face and she sank back down into blackness despite the bright lights shining overhead.


	16. Chapter 16

"What do you mean _gone_?" Gibbs roared at the young MP standing outside the house where he and McGee had spent the nights watching over his agents.

"There's no sign of Agents Russell, DiNozzo or David," the blond man said, infinitely grateful he had been listening when his superior had spouted off the names and general descriptions earlier. "Just the dead guy in the back room."

"The _dead guy_," Gibbs shouted, his nose mere inches from the MP's, "was Special Agent Miguel Rios, a father to two little boys who will grow up without a daddy thanks to this murdering son of a bitch you could have caught if you had anything that could even be called a response time."

"I'm sorry," the young man began, obviously startled by Gibbs' fury.

Gibbs turned away, not bothering to educate the useless kid on his rules. "McGee!"

The agent appeared at his side like magic. "Nothing yet, Boss," he said, trying to keep the fear for his teammates and Agent Russell out of his voice—and the images of Rios' ruined skull out of his head. "Their cells are either broken or dismantled. The blood trail leading out of the house is human and I've got a sample on the way to Abby to determine the type. Tire tracks I lifted from the street over there are also on their way to her so we can get a BOLO together. MPs are going to start canvassing the rest of the houses on the street to see if anyone saw or heard anything."

Gibbs just nodded, his eyes scanning the area for something—anything that could tell him where his agents were. But there was nothing. The blood trail stopped in the grass near the edge of the driveway, likely where the bodies were loaded into a waiting vehicle. Gibbs' stomach about hit the floor as he realized he had just referred to his agents as "bodies" and he hoped like hell that he hadn't sent them off to their deaths. And all along he had thought that it was his _inaction_ that would get Tony and Ziva in trouble…

The amount of blood in the house and on the grass meant someone was seriously injured, either dying or possibly already dead, but Gibbs knew that considering the state of Rios' body, it was likely that someone was Agent Russell.

That didn't make him feel any better.

And neither did the way McGee was looking at him right now with a mixture of pain and fear in his eyes that Gibbs had seen once before, when Tony and Ziva were missing after a major gunfight on the docks.

Gibbs just met his anguished gaze and said, "No need for divers in the water this time, either, McGee." He watched as McGee got the silent message: "_If they were dead, I'd know about it. They're not dead."_

The junior agent closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again, nodding. "We'll find them," he said, studying Gibbs as if trying to figure if he was right in faking that confidence.

Gibbs nodded back, putting a hand on a trembling shoulder. "That's a good job, Tim," he said, watching McGee wince at the sentiment. Gibbs blocked his reaction to the Tony-like behavior and asked gruffly, "Get anything from the immediate neighbors?"

"One to the left isn't home," McGee said, clearly glad to be able to focus on something other than crime scene photos that could easily be blueprints to the fates his friends were suffering at that very moment. "One on the right, Julia Hernandez, says she heard a loud bang but figured it was either a car backfiring or something base-related. She didn't think anything of it until I knocked, and she didn't see anything strange."

Gibbs glanced at the house and driveway. "Not sure how she could with that behemoth in the way," he said. "Her SUV?"

McGee nodded. "Yeah, been there all day. All week, actually. She said something about an oil leak and waiting until her husband got back from travel to fix it."

Gibbs nodded and fought a sigh, thinking about the loud bang Mrs. Hernandez had heard—and hoping it wasn't someone putting a bullet into one of his agents.

* * *

Tony saw the woman moving up behind Ziva and he tried to speak, tried to move.

But the words didn't come and his stunned limbs would not obey his foggy brain with anything more than seriously uncoordinated twitches and jerks. He could smell the faint scent of singed flesh and knew he would have the telltale burns of a Taser on his neck even if he couldn't remember actually getting hit with it.

Those were the least of his problems.

His biggest problem right now was that he was being dragged into a basement and couldn't get his body to fight as his brain screamed useless instructions to unheeding limbs. He saw the bandage on Stone's hand and knew Ziva must have done some serious damage considering the blood leaking through the once-white gauze.

"That's… my girl," Tony managed, drawing a leering grin from Stone.

The killer drew back and punched him hard in the face with his uninjured left hand. "She's my girl now," Stone spat. "And don't you forget that."

Tony couldn't stop the shudder—not that it mattered with his body spasming in irregular intervals as function returned slowly. "You hit… like a girl… too."

Tony was expecting to get hit again and he imagined Gibbs telling him to shut his damned mouth. But Stone didn't hit him. The clerk just shoved him onto his right side, and Tony felt his head bounce off the thin carpet on the basement floor. His head swam dizzily as Stone bound his hands and feet with duct tape, but he forced his eyes to focus as the woman dragged Ziva's limp body down the stairs. Tony could see no major injury as the woman bound her in similar fashion—until she moved away and Tony saw the swelling covering Ziva's cheekbone.

The woman looked down at her captives and grinned widely. Tony didn't recognize her but was shocked that she appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent. At first glance, he had thought she was Hispanic, but when she spoke, he heard the accent.

"Thank you, baby," she said, as if Stone had just given her a new puppy.

The killer winked at her and looped an arm around her waist, kissing her cheek. "I told you we'd get us one more," he drawled. "And now we got us a pair of fancy special agents to play with all night long."

Tony's brain caught up with that a second later, and he wondered how long Stone had known they were undercover agents. "Wha… Who… are you?" Tony managed, despite his mouth's uncooperative movements.

The woman just smiled. "Later." She ran a hand down Stone's chest and whispered in his ear.

"His hands?" Stone said, pulling away and sounding confused.

The woman pouted. "Now you have gone and ruined the surprise, Dusty," she said, her voice bordering on whiny. She disengaged from Stone and walked around Tony's prone form. She stopped behind him, and Tony tried to twist around to see what she was doing, but lying on his side with his hands taped behind him, it wasn't the easiest of maneuvers.

Especially considering the woman's shoe pressing down on his joined wrists.

He didn't make a sound, even when the pressure increased as she squatted down behind him to get a closer look at what was obviously the object of her fascination. His shudder was more twitchy than anything when she ran work-roughened fingers down his bare forearm and let them trail over his wrist and down to his fingertips.

"Such beautiful hands," she said, sighing in appreciation. "Are you a musician, pretty baby?"

Tony twitched some more at her gentle tone. "Does… drunken karaoke count?"

The woman tutted softly and wrapped her fist around his left index finger. "Do not lie to me, pretty. I would hate to have to ruin such lovely hands." She pulled his finger back until it was almost perpendicular to the back of his hand, and he bit his lip, feeling the strain in the tendons all the way through his palm. "Guitar? Piano?"

_Fuck you_, Tony thought, trying _not_ to think about his mother's piano—or the one currently located in his apartment. "Can't play… a note."

"I bet it is piano," she said, and Tony couldn't tell if it was wishful—delusional?—thinking or if he had given something away with his face, which was still not cooperating just like the rest of his body wasn't.

She was stroking her thumb slowly over the back of his strained finger, and he desperately wanted her to stop.

He wanted even more desperately for Ziva to open her eyes.

And for Stone to stop staring at her with such open lust.

_Maybe it's better that she sleeps through this—at least until Gibbs gets here. _Tony realized with a start that Gibbs wasn't here, and neither were the MPs he had sent. Tony had no idea how long he had been knocked out by the Taser or how bad traffic had been on the interstate, but he knew that the MPs should have arrived, at least. _There's enough blood in the driveway—_

"Agent Russell," Tony said, not realizing he had spoken out loud until Stone stopped ogling Ziva long enough to study his face.

Understanding dawned in the killer's eyes. "Dead," was all he said before turning back to Ziva.

Tony felt sick. Both at the knowledge that two agents were now dead—_Because of me?_—and at the more immediate helplessness he felt watching Stone walk toward Ziva's limp body. Tony prayed to every god he could think of that the killers would stick to their routine. Tony knew he would take whatever these two psychopaths could dish out if it meant more time for Gibbs to find them before they could turn their attention to his partner.

"Dusty," the woman called suddenly, and Tony would have kissed her for distracting Stone from his obvious intentions, even though he was sure another ounce of pressure would snap his finger in two.

"Yes, Miri?" Stone answered, snapped out of his lusty daze by her voice.

Tony struggled through the fog to remember where he had heard that name recently, but he couldn't get his fried synapses to cooperate.

"This will not do," she said, releasing Tony's hand and standing.

Tony's hand curled reflexively into a fist, his thumb immediately covering the aching joint as if to protect it. He looked up at the woman who was looking down at him with calculating eyes. His mind raced through the hundreds of files he had practically memorized before and during this operation, but, like the name, he could not place the woman's face.

"What can I do for you, love?" Stone asked, his doting tone making Tony wonder who the initiator of all this violence was—or if they were equally insane.

"I want you to move him."

_I second that_, Tony thought, his right arm fast asleep under a body that still felt both leaden and electrified at the same time.

"Go find a chair," she ordered. "One with sturdy arms."

Stone looked confused, but Tony suddenly felt like his blood had been replaced with ice.

And that was even before she continued.

"I want to be able to see his face as I break every bone in those beautiful hands of his."

* * *

Gibbs was standing in front of the house, watching the body bag containing the corpse that was once Agent Miguel Rios being loaded into an ambulance.

Gibbs ran a hand over his face, feeling exhausted but knowing sleep was an impossibility. He and McGee had just finished processing the listening post—the hardest scene Gibbs had ever worked considering he wanted to be banging down every door on the base until he found his missing agents. Another agent was now speeding away to take the evidence to Abby.

It didn't matter.

Gibbs knew who the killer was.

He watched McGee approaching him with a sick look on his face, and Gibbs almost didn't want to hear whatever news Abby had called with on the blood found in the grass. McGee handed his boss's cell phone back, gratitude in his eyes because he knew Gibbs had let him take the call from the scientist, knowing just hearing Abby's voice would calm him—and quite possibly make hearing whatever news she had just a fraction easier.

"The blood is Russell's type," he said woodenly. "Doesn't match Tony's or Ziva's types."

"Anything else?" Gibbs asked, trying not to sound relieved.

"Nothing yet. Abby focused on the blood first. She's working on the tire tracks now. Still nothing from their cells."

Gibbs nodded, staring off into space.

"It's Stone, isn't it, Boss?" McGee said, his eyes on the body bag and therefore missing the pride that flared in Gibbs' blue eyes. "He's the killer."

"Why's that, McGee?" Gibbs asked, fighting the odd urge to call him McGoo or Elf Lord.

"The blood spatter suggests Rios was still facing the monitors when he was attacked," McGee said slowly, flinching when the medics slammed the ambulance doors shut. "Probably first, because Stone would think Russell would give him less trouble."

Gibbs was thinking about the wreck the room had been, with blood splashed over broken equipment sent flying by a fierce battle.

"But Russell put up a hell of a fight," McGee said, blocking the image of the agent's pretty face. He put a hand to his belly and fought not to throw up, remembering too the bag of gourmet coffee that had appeared before their first shift—and Russell's wink and grin at him as she had left the house that night. Tim shook his head hard. "That red hair we found in Rios' fist was put there. He got hit first thing, and there was no time for him to fight back and rip it out."

Gibbs saw the haunted shadows in his agent's eyes—and his fear for the friends who may or may not have met the same sad fates as Russell and Rios. "Lotta people with red hair, McGee. I should know—I've been married to half of 'em."

McGee didn't smile, but the anxiety in his eyes lifted just a tiny bit. He nodded. "Or it could have been a plant," he said, sounding uncertain again.

"It's Stone," Gibbs said, catching the look. "Houser was just found. He's been in meetings with a roomful of people all day."

"We really don't have any other solid suspects," McGee said.

"It's Stone," Gibbs said again, knowing McGee needed a definite target for his anger—so he could focus less on his fear. "No forensic evidence at any crime scene before and now there's a hair? This is his swan song, and he wants us to know it's him. He made our operation, and now he's rubbing it in our faces."

This time, McGee couldn't stop himself. He walked with a calm he didn't feel to the bushes in front of the house and threw up. He felt a warm hand on his back a moment later and threw up some more.

"Don't, Gibbs," he choked, straightening but unable to meet his boss's eyes. "I don't deserve it."

Gibbs pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into McGee's hands while steering the shaken agent to the front steps. He pushed Tim down and sat beside him, not touching him as he watched McGee wipe his mouth.

McGee finally looked up, his eyes swimming with guilt. And a glimmer of resolve. "Boss, this is my fault," he said, taking a deep breath and forcing his gaze to Gibbs' face. "Boss, I…"

"I know what you did," Gibbs said. "And I'm proud of you for having their backs when I didn't. You've become… a hell of an agent, Tim."

McGee was stunned speechless—but only for a second before the words came pouring out. "But Gibbs, I went behind your back, and I met with them when I shouldn't have. Hell, what if Stone followed them? I led a killer to right to them. And if Stone followed me back here? Then I led a killer right to Rios and Russell. They're dead because of me."

Gibbs held up a hand to stop the rising hysteria he heard in McGee's voice. "I know exactly how you handled the meet, McGee," Gibbs said. "And you handled it perfectly. No one followed you back here."

McGee gaped. "How can you _know _that?"

"Because you would spot a tail, McGee," Gibbs said simply. "I know you would. Because I trained you. Because Tony and Ziva trained you."

McGee tried to ignore that, unable to handle the confidence his boss had in him. "But Tony and Ziva…"

"If they were followed," Gibbs said firmly, "then that's on them."

McGee was silent.

"And Tony and Ziva are not dead," Gibbs said, knowing McGee needed to hear the actual words this time. "I'd know it if they were."

Gibbs was surprised—and felt another flash of pride—when McGee spoke.

The agent nodded slowly, having absolute faith in Gibbs' gut. "But that doesn't mean they're okay, Boss."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **This one isn't going to be pretty, just FYI... Heed the warnings.

* * *

Tony really was never one to react as expected.

So when he found himself sitting strapped to a straight-backed chair and staring into the shocked brown eyes of his partner—again—he simply laughed.

"So how was your summer?" he asked, fighting the giggles and wishing the rest of his body was cooperating as well as his mouth. Not that it mattered, really, considering the tape binding his wrists to the chair, pilfered from some hideous dining-room set that reminded him of the furniture his mother had loved. He had mostly been like a rag doll infested with grasshoppers when Stone had hauled him up off the floor and secured him to his free-standing prison.

Ziva didn't smile—but she was awake and aware, and that was good enough for Tony. She opened her mouth and took a deep breath, but then closed it again, questions in her eyes.

"Soundproof," Tony agreed, glancing to where Stone and Miri stood, silently watching them.

Stone nodded in confirmation, looking somewhat mystified.

"I couldn't hear you clomping around up there in your big redneck boots when you went for the chair," Tony said casually, watching Stone's lips thin into a tight line of anger. Tony knew he needed to watch himself here and give just enough lip to draw Stone's attention away from Ziva—but not so much that Stone and Miri decided to put matching bullets in both of them.

Ziva glanced at the child-size drum set in the corner. "That is a pretty good clue, too," she said, rolling her eyes. "Oh, and that there is a murder investigation going on next door and you did not tape our mouths."

"I'm gonna punch the boss when we get out of this for picking a place next to the one house on base with a soundproof basement," Tony said, telling Ziva she was right in her guess that they hadn't been moved from the house they were attacked in. "And damn little Jimmy for his ambition."

Stone was still looking at Ziva, but it was not with lust. He asked, "How did you know they're still over there?"

Ziva grinned. "You are wearing a watch. I know what time we entered this house, and I know how long it takes to process a murder scene." Her smile changed subtly, and Tony gave her a warning glare before she even spoke. "It is called math, Stone. It is actually quite simple."

Tony spoke quickly. "And even if you weren't wearing that oh-so classy Wal-mart special-edition timepiece, you just confirmed it."

"Shut up, both of you," Miri said calmly. "You are both so very smart. We get it." She smiled a demon's grin. "Those other agents were not so smart when we snuck up and attacked them. And the pair watching the Nesbitts? Not so smart either—or as invisible as they thought they were. But if you two are so smart, try to use your big brains to get out of those restraints. Then, I might be impressed."

Ziva looked like she might accomplish that through fury alone when Stone moved in front of her and cupped her face. "Pretty and smart. We are gonna have so much fun tonight."

Tony saw her stop struggling immediately at those words, and he felt his own fury rise as the spark died out of Ziva's dark eyes. _Fight it, Ziva. Just keep fighting it. We will get out of here. Just hold on, Ziva. _

Tony couldn't focus on his suffering partner any longer because his view was blocked by Miri, who sat sideways on his lap and laid a hand on his wrist, the touch a gentle contradiction to the sudden burning in her eyes. But then she turned to Stone.

"This is not the same, Dusty," she said, sounding frustrated. She turned back to Tony. "This is where I usually would ask if you hurt her. If you enjoyed stealing her from her home, her family. As I was stolen from mine by that sick fuck who made me his slave."

"Just pretend it's him, baby," Stone said, coming to put a hand on her shoulder. "Look at that haircut. Remember what we did to Marcus? Remember how he screamed while the waves crashed onto the shore? Focus on that, Miri, and you'll do fine."

Stone moved to take a seat to watch them, and Ziva felt immediately guilty at her rush of relief. She met Tony's eyes and found strength in his steady green gaze.

"Miri," Tony said, cocking his head to the side.

"The shore near Lejeune," Ziva said, nodding.

Tony looked at the woman still sitting on him. "Miriam Shaw."

Miri laughed and slapped him lightly on the cheek. "One out of two, pretty. Good for you." Her eyes darkened and she slid her hand to his neck, feeling him jump when she pressed hard on the burns from the Taser. "But it is Shah, you dumb American."

"You attacked your own boyfriend," Ziva said.

Miri stood, whipping around and turning furious eyes on Ziva. "That scum was not my boyfriend," she hissed. "He was my captor. He stole me from my homeland and threatened my family if I did not go with him and play his sick game."

"Why did you not report him?" Ziva asked. "Why not run away once you were both here and your family was safe?"

Miri laughed. "Run away to what? I have nothing here, no way to support myself, no way to get home. Those dumb cops even got my name wrong when they came to question me about Marcus. I did not bother to correct them, but I did turn on the tears. They never suspected me at all," she said, sounding quite proud of herself.

"Why did you tell them you had a stalker?" Tony asked.

The woman returned to Tony's lap, sitting on his thigh and grasping the small finger on his left hand in one smooth movement. She flicked her wrist, snapping the bone and dislocating the knuckle joint with that one fluid, practiced motion.

Tony bit off his scream and twisted against his restraints, trying to rear up as if to squirm away from the sudden shocking pain. He gave up and simply sat there, squeezing his eyes closed and gritting his teeth until the agony dropped from its dizzying peak back down to something tolerable. He took a slow, deep breath to quell his panting and opened his eyes—only to find Miri's face inches from his, her gleeful grin making him twice as sick as the burning in his hand.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, making him want to gag. "You are going to be so much fun, pretty," she whispered, as though amazed by him. She smiled again and sang out happily, "One down! Nine to go!"

Ziva watched the entire scene with a sick twisting in her own belly. She wondered where the hell Gibbs and McGee were—and why they had not spotted the blood in the driveway. At the very least, they should have been canvassing the neighborhood. Ziva suddenly realized they probably had—and Miri had likely sent them on their way with a sad smile and a lie. There had been no photo—no description even—in the file on the Lejeune attack.

_No wonder McGee could not find a thing on this woman_, Ziva thought, trying not to look at her partner's mangled finger. She opened her mouth to ask a question to draw Miri's attention away from Tony, but the woman was already speaking again.

"We should play a game," she said, her eyes flicking to Stone. The red-haired man was slumped in his chair, obviously enjoying the show and waiting patiently until it was his turn to play. His eyes were so filled with lust that Ziva doubted he was feeling much pain in his injured hand.

_Pity,_ Ziva thought, wishing her aim had been better.

Miri dropped a heavy hand onto Tony's injured one, grinning when he gasped in pain. "For every question you want answered, I get to break another finger. Deal?"

Ziva clamped her mouth shut, glad she had not gotten her question out.

But then Tony was saying, "I should get an answer for that one." He glanced down at the broken digit and continued, "_Pretty_ please?"

The angry flash in her eyes told him she knew he was mocking her cutesy nicknames so he was surprised when she agreed. "I figured if the police thought I had a stalker, they would not focus on me as Marcus's assailant."

"You're lucky they didn't think your buddy Dusty was that assailant," Tony said, wishing like hell that he could pull his damaged hand up to his chest. Nothing would make the agony subside completely—except something from the opiate family—but he knew just being able to elevate the injury would ease the merciless throbbing.

Miri stroked the back of her knuckle down his ring finger and smiled. "And you are lucky that I am not going to break this one for calling me stupid."

"Why didn't you kill Marcus?" Tony asked without hesitation.

He saw the flash of pure pleasure in her eyes and wondered if it was from his fearless question or from what was about to come. He wasn't wondering anything when she slapped her hand down hard on his, placing it sideways and using the side of her hand as a pivot point as she jerked his ring finger upward.

There was a soft pop instead of a crisp snap so Tony drew a shuddering breath, swallowed hard against the nausea climbing his throat and said, "If you were trying to break that…" He paused, panting a few quick breaths. "You missed."

She stared at him in wide-eyed shock for a moment.

"It's only dislocated," he clarified helpfully.

"I…" she said, and then she gave her head a slight shake and smiled. "I really, really like you, pretty. And I owe you an answer. I wanted to kill him. Dusty did not. He said we had to make preparations so we would not get caught. I was terrified he would tell the police what happened, but it turns out Marcus is a Marine down to his bones. He made up the story about the mugger because he would not admit to having been beaten by a woman. Still, I wanted to go back that night and make sure he would never talk, but Dusty said no. And then Marcus got shipped out later that month. And now he will return to Lejeune later this week."

The woman's glee was unmistakable, and Ziva said softly, "You are practicing." She shook her head slowly. "You are letting him rape women who you feel are traitors to your homeland while you beat the men for stealing them away. You must realize it cannot be both ways?"

Miri pried her gaze from Tony's pain-filled eyes. "Was that a question?" She stroked the back of Tony's swollen hand, making his whole body spasm at the soft contact. She turned to Stone. "What do you think, baby?"

Stone nodded, but his eyes were on Ziva. "Sounded like a question to me."

"Please!" Ziva cried, ignoring the daggers Tony was throwing at her. "Please. It was not a question. I swear. Just please… Do not hurt him."

"You heard the man," Miri said, lifting a shoulder and taking Tony's middle finger into her tight fist. The contact with his previously damaged digits had him squirming again, panting just to get through the pain.

"Aw, come on," he said, knowing he was shaking—and that she could feel it because she was still sitting on his lap—but he tried for a smile anyway. "Not that one. I need to be able to give people the finger. And it won't have as much of an impact if it's all bent up and crooked."

"You still have your right hand," Miri said dismissively. The glee returned to her dark eyes as she succeeded in snapping the bone this time.

"For now."

* * *

"Thank you, Agent Calderon," McGee said, nodding to the female agent who was about to leave the surveillance house after reporting that nothing had been turned up in the neighborhood canvass.

"I should have sent her in with Tony," Gibbs said from his position on the lumpy couch in the living room as he watched the young, dark-haired woman leave.

McGee blinked in shock, both at the words and at Gibbs' defeated posture. His silver head was resting in his hands, but he looked up, sensing his agent's distress.

"Boss…"

Gibbs sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. _I'm getting too old for this. _"Sometimes being a good agent means admitting when you're wrong."

McGee couldn't really process that so he said, "Ziva had us all fooled." He went red in the face and said quickly, "And Calderon isn't Middle Eastern anyway."

Gibbs' phone rang and he tossed it to McGee, who was grateful both for the simple kindness and that no words were needed between them to explain it.

"Tell me you have something, Abby."

"You don't sound like Gibbs at all," came the reply.

But McGee could hear the strain in the scientist's voice and he knew she was about as close to breaking as he was if they didn't get something to work with soon.

"Anything, Abby?" McGee said, knowing he sounded like he was pleading. He didn't care. He probably was.

"Tire tracks are from an SUV."

McGee waited for the rest. He looked at the phone to see if he had gotten disconnected. "Abby?"

"That's it, McGee," she said, sounding as frustrated as he felt. "They're BFGoodrich all-terrain tires. Not standard on any vehicle, but will fit on a lot of SUVs. I know I'm good, Timmy, but that's all I have. And I don't think I can put out a BOLO on 'a lot of SUVs,' okay? I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Abby," McGee said, his tone drawing Gibbs' weary eyes.

"Did you get anything from the canvass?" she asked. But then she rushed on. "Of course you didn't. You would have told me. And if you had found them, this conversation would be pointless. Don't say it, Timmy. I just can't take hearing any more bad news."

Since McGee didn't have any good news, he just stayed silent.

"Please, McGee," Abby whispered. "Just tell me you'll find them safe and sound?"

McGee sighed and closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to see the anguish in Gibbs' _and_ speak the words at the same time.

"That's just it, Abbs. I don't think I can this time."

* * *

"There were never signs of forced entry," Tony said, his voice ragged with pain. He saw Ziva shaking her head at him, tears filling her pretty dark eyes, and he knew this was hurting her, too. But still he asked, "How did you get them to let you in?"

Miri shook her head in amazement before calmly setting about her ghastly task. She snapped his index finger with a sweet smile, her eyes dancing as he finally gave in to the agony and allowed himself a moan, long and low and originating from deep in the back of his throat.

Ziva closed her eyes along with him and wished this crazy woman would stop.

Wished _Tony_ would stop _his_ craziness.

She opened her eyes to find Tony staring straight at her. He didn't look away from his partner when he said to Miri, "My reward?"

And suddenly Ziva got it.

Miri was going to hurt him anyway, and Tony knew it. Whether Miri talked in between those sickening snaps of bone or not, the rest of Tony's fingers were as good as broken already. Not only was Tony getting a detailed confession out of the woman—break by agonizing break—but he was also prolonging the torture. He was giving Gibbs time to find them. And he was giving Ziva time to escape what they all knew would come next.

And maybe, just maybe, Ziva prayed, the effort of leading Miri through the "interrogation" was giving her suffering partner something to focus on besides the pain.

Ziva just hoped they would both be alive to testify against these sick bastards.

_Or not_, Ziva thought, imagining an even more satisfying alternative.

"My turn," Stone said, making Ziva's stomach flip as she realized all over again that he had barely taken his eyes off of her. "My job at the commissary meant a lot of contact with a lot of base personnel. People saw me there a lot so they sometimes felt like they knew me. They trusted me—or saw me as harmless. Either way, when I showed up to their homes with a copy of a receipt, some cash and a story about shortchanging them, they invited me right in."

"Did you ever get your 'apology' for your 'mistake' out before you strangled those men and raped their wives?" Ziva asked, practically spitting the words.

It wasn't until she saw Miri's grin that she realized her mistake. Her gasp came at about the same time as Tony's, and she knew she would be hearing that sharp crack of bone for the rest of her life. Ziva's shriek of terror and anguish and fury covered Tony's choked cry of pain as Miri grasped the broken thumb and wrenched it out of the socket.

Tony wanted nothing more than to put his head back and scream for all he was worth.

But he wasn't about to give the bitch the satisfaction.

"Wasss that?" he said, breathing through the nausea and wondering what would happen if he just puked on the psycho woman. "K-mart blue-light special? A two-for-one deal?"

Miri stroked a fingertip down Tony's hand slowly, and it took him a second to realize she was tracing the bones in the back of his hand. He might have shivered, but it was hard to tell with his body twitching like a tweaker on a three-day high every time her touch neared his badly damaged knuckles.

"The break was for the question," she said patiently, as if this were as normal as explaining charades to a blind man. She turned her attention to Ziva. "The dislocation was because no one invited you to play our game."

"What about me?" Stone said suddenly, his eyes skimming Ziva's body from head to toe. "Am I invited yet?"


	18. Chapter 18

McGee filled Gibbs in on the new information—scant as it was. He paused. "She really wants to be here, Boss."

Gibbs' head snapped up at that. "And do you really want her here when all we find are bloody bodies?"

The sharp breath McGee took could have been a gasp. It also could have been a choked half-sob thanks to Gibbs' bluntness and the images, aided by hours of staring at crime scene photos, that sprang up in McGee's head. He was glad he wasn't in writing mode because he didn't need his fertile imagination supplying any more gruesome visions.

Gibbs was on his feet, cursing himself and reaching out with an unsteady hand. He grasped McGee's shoulder tightly, feeling like he himself needed something to hang on to just then. "Tim," he said, staring straight into glittering green eyes. "I didn't mean that. We'll find them."

"Alive, Boss?" McGee asked, suddenly angry. "Or just their broken corpses? As if either of them was whole before all this? I mean, Ziva's been a mess since we got her back, even though she did a damned good job hiding it—which couldn't have helped her any, having to hide all that. And speaking of hiding, it's practically a second job for Tony. He's probably getting the shit beaten out of him as we speak, but hey, at least it's not the first time. Certainly not the first time on the job, and well… Let's just say I saw what he did to that dirtbag who smacked him around in that hotel the last time they were undercover. We're talking long-term issues there."

McGee shook his head. "And you know what the worst part is?"

"No," Gibbs said tiredly, "but you're going to tell me."

"The worst part is we let them hide from us. When we should have been asking Ziva how she was doing after Somalia, when we should have been asking Tony how he was doing after Jeanne shattered his heart and almost got him killed—and thrown in prison. We should have been there for them, like they've been there for us." McGee's voice cracked and he felt Gibbs' hand tighten on his shoulder. "When I was freaking out over shooting that cop, Tony was there for me, even though I tried to keep him out. He wouldn't take no for an answer. And when he and Ziva needed someone, they didn't even have to say no because I never even asked in the first place."

McGee stood there, trembling and staring at his feet.

And then Gibbs asked, "Is this the part where we hug, Tim?"

McGee just blinked in shock. And then he laughed, the action carrying away some of his tension. He looked to Gibbs and immediately saw the return of the resolve in his boss's eyes. "If you're being Tony, does that mean I have to be Ziva?"

Gibbs eyed his agent's newly skinny frame. "Yep," he said, giving Tim a soft smile. "You're the only one who'd fit in those tiny pants of hers."

* * *

Tony wondered what it said about him that he hadn't truly panicked until he heard those words and saw Stone's leering face break into a grin as he ogled Ziva. He knew that Gibbs and McGee would come for them. He knew he could take the pain because he had grown up playing sports—and in his father's home. He was no stranger to broken fingers. Granted, he had never dealt with so many all at once, but he was dealing quite well considering the circumstances.

What he was not dealing well with was the stark terror in Ziva's eyes.

He knew he had to do something to create a diversion. And since juggling flaming batons was out of question, he decided to improvise.

"Miri."

The woman's head snapped around, a huge smile on her face.

_That was easy_, Tony thought, struggling through the agony to remember the rest of his plan and hoping it would work just as spectacularly.

"I really like the way you say my name, pretty," she purred, running a hand down his cheek. "It is so sexy."

Tony tried not to roll his eyes—which was good because he probably would have passed out—because he knew he had sounded anything but sexy when he had choked out the name through the dizzying waves of pain.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

_Shoot me and put me out of my misery_, he thought.

_Oh, wait. _

"You're doing it," he said back, dropping his voice and looking deep into her eyes as she smiled at his sultry tone.

And then he spit in her face.

Ziva had been watching the exchange, thinking Tony was going to offer his body to this crazy woman to stave off Ziva's own suffering—as if he hadn't been doing that all along. She had also been watching him shaking, both with the agony and the effort it must be taking not to howl in pain, and watching his skin growing ever more pale, ever more damp with sweat brought on by shock from the multiple broken bones in his hand.

She was thinking that his "DiNozzos do not pass out" line was something more than a line.

She was also thinking he was something slightly more than human.

She saw Miri recoil and stagger off Tony's lap, swiping furiously at her face as she stomped across the room and snatched up the gun from Stone's hand. Ziva watched in horror as Miri stopped in front of Tony, the gun still at her side in her shaking grip.

Ziva couldn't see Tony's face, and while she wanted to communicate all the things she needed to say to this brave, loyal man who had twice endured such suffering for her, she did not want to watch Miri put a bullet through his head.

"Tony," she whispered, feeling the tears streaming down her face. "I am so sorry."

And then she watched as Miri took the gun not by the grip but by the barrel. Ziva felt sick, knowing exactly what was coming. And even though she couldn't see his face, she knew Tony knew, too.

Ziva wanted to look away as Miri raised the gun and brought it down hard on the back of Tony's restrained hand, drawing a tortured scream from the injured agent. But if Tony had to endure this, then the least she could do was watch and try to catch his eye, offering support and comfort in the only way she could.

Again and again, Ziva watched as the gun fell over and over. She listened as Tony's screams turned to panted gasps to soft, simple cries of "Please. Please. Please." The salty taste of her own tears was erased by the tangy smell of blood when the gun—or one of his own broken bones—broke his skin.

But mostly, Ziva just sat there, feeling her partner's pain.

Miri finally stopped, dropping the gun to the floor as if exhausted by her efforts. She turned to Stone and gave him a bored wave.

"Hurt him," she said, wiping at her dry face with a shudder. "_Break_ him. I do not want to touch that dirty thing ever again."

Tony felt the first few hits—stunning, breath-stealing punches to the abdomen made worse by the fact that he was strapped to a chair with no escape, no twisting to soften the blows.

He felt the next few, too, including a clip to the jaw so forceful that the stars exploding behind his eyelids rocked in time with the chair that tilted onto two legs before crashing back down again.

Fortunately, he did not feel the rest.

* * *

Gibbs looked up from photos of the previous crime scenes and rubbed his tired eyes. So far, the only pattern he had found was that the torture had taken place in basements—which was not helpful because they already knew that. McGee had compiled a list of houses nearby with basements, but that too was unhelpful. The house they were sitting in had a basement, as did the homes on either side and most on the street.

"How far did you get with Stone's possible escape plans?" Gibbs asked, remembering McGee had been working on that seemingly a lifetime ago.

McGee sighed and looked up from the live video feeds of the base gates. Every car was being stopped and searched to make sure Stone didn't take Tony and Ziva off base to torture, rape and kill them. _Or dispose of their already dead bodies_, McGee thought, fighting panic.

"Not very. His only living relative is an aunt in San Francisco, and he's not going to ask her for help."

Gibbs just asked the question with a look.

"She's in a coma," McGee said, scrubbing his hands over his face and trying to get the desert's worth of sand out of his tired eyes. "Has been since a car accident in 1999."

Gibbs looked up sharply, having not thought of this case having a financial aspect. "Who's paying for that?"

But McGee just shook his head, knowing where Gibbs was going and feeling guilty for ruining the momentum. "The rich family of the fourteen-year-old joy-rider who hit her."

"So we've still got nothing," Gibbs said, unnecessarily.

"Nothing but this sick feeling that we're missing something," McGee said. _And this fear—this horrible, agonizing, suffocating, gut-wrenching terror that I'll never see my friends alive again. _

Gibbs didn't need for McGee to verbalize those thoughts. He was feeling the same ones. And he also knew about that sick feeling that they were missing something. It was the same feeling he had been having all week. And suddenly Gibbs wanted nothing more than Tony and Ziva—whole and healthy and right in front of him—to tell him what that something was.

Hell, Gibbs could practically see the twinkle in Tony's eyes as he teased him about finding what his boss had missed.

Gibbs could handle the teasing.

What he couldn't handle was losing his agents to a killer.

* * *

Ziva finally had to look away.

As a child in Israel, she had lost family to roadside bombs and she had trained to become a killing machine. As a Mossad operative, she had been all over the world, seen things most people could only dream of—in their worst nightmares. She had witnessed violent deaths and she had committed brutal murders with her own hands. As an NCIS agent, she had walked the most gruesome of crime scenes after lives were taken and she had taken lives herself in order to save others.

And though—or perhaps because—she had been in his position, hurting and helpless and left to the mercy of the deranged, she found she could not watch as Stone delivered yet another blow to her partner's already battered body.

And then suddenly it was over.

Stone stepped away, and Ziva saw the damage he had been blocking. Both Tony's face and hand were swollen and bloody, and Ziva was almost glad she could not see the evidence of the injury to his chest and belly.

"Miri," Stone said, panting from his exertions. "Come with me."

The woman nodded and obeyed, and Ziva could almost see the shift in power. She shoved aside the sickening dread at what that meant for her own wellbeing and concentrated on how to defeat such an effective partnership.

She looked down at the gun at Tony's feet and took comfort in the knowledge that she had an even better partnership.

"Tony," she said, not bothering to whisper thanks to the soundproofing. "Tony, can you hear me?"

She almost wished he could not.

Almost.

They needed each other if they had any hope of getting out of this alive.

"Mmmmmmm," was all Tony could manage.

"Open your eyes, Tony, and look at me," Ziva commanded, her tone gentle but firm.

Tony got his right eye open.

"Good enough," Ziva said, trying to smile and hating herself for it all the same. "My left foot is free."

"Ninja chick," Tony whispered, causing fresh blood to spill from his mouth.

"Well, I could not just sit here doing nothing and let you have all the fun," she said, grasping desperately for normal—and also reaching desperately for the gun with her foot. She felt the weight of the weapon and balanced it on her toes. "I am going to lift my foot and I need you to take the gun, Tony. Look down and focus on your right hand. I will put the gun as close to it as I can, but I need you to take it, okay? Please, Tony. We will only have one shot at this."

"Heh. Shot," Tony mumbled.

"Tony!" Ziva hissed.

"K, I'm ready if you are," Tony slurred, looking down and seeing two of his right hand—but at least he could see it. And at least it wasn't the swollen mess of blood and bone that his left hand was.

Ziva lifted her foot slowly, which was as quickly as she dared. She had no idea where Miri and Stone had gone, but she knew she had to be careful. If the gun slipped, there was no way either of them could get to it. She was having doubts that Tony would be conscious and able to fire the gun, but she shoved those worries aside. Ziva did not know much right then, but she knew her partner would move mountains for her. _Had moved_ mountains for her in a cell in Somalia.

"Squeeze, Tony," Ziva said, watching him slowly close his hand around the gun.

She almost screamed as his hand started to go limp, the gun slipping slightly toward the floor.

"Tony!"

" 'M good," he said, his grip tightening on the weapon. "As long as they come back in the next minute or so."

"Stay with me, Tony," she urged, wishing she could instruct him to give in to the pain and pass out.

He opened his mouth, but she said, "No movie references. Unless they will help you stay awake."

If he could have found one in his pain-fogged brain, they would never know.

At that moment, the killers came back down the basement stairs.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: **More warnings. This chapter includes a rather painful trip into Ziva's head. Proceed with caution.

* * *

"Boss?" McGee said suddenly, looking up from the computer screen.

Gibbs held his breath, knowing it was unlikely McGee had spotted Tony and Ziva strolling arm-in-arm through the main gate.

"What's the Spanish word for 'heart'?"

Normally Gibbs would have yelled, but McGee looked excited and after so long with only despair, the lead agent wasn't about to ruin it. "It's pronounced 'see-airt-sah' in Russian."

McGee closed his eyes, obviously searching for some memory. Gibbs again wanted to yell, but he held his tongue.

"Corazon," McGee said, his eyes snapping open. "Remember when you said you should have sent Agent Calderon undercover with Tony instead of Ziva? I said you couldn't have because she's not Middle Eastern. She's Hispanic. But it's easy to confuse the two nationalities. I mean, studies have shown that most people have trouble distinguishing faces among races that are not their own."

Gibbs couldn't take it anymore. Nor he could he follow McGee's wandering logic. "Point, McGee?"

"That's exactly what I did with Mrs. Hernandez next door," McGee explained. "I thought she was Hispanic because before she opened the door, she called 'Just a minute, my heart' in Spanish, and she said she thought I was her husband, home from travel. But she said 'coeur'—which is French for 'heart'—not 'corazon'—which is the correct Spanish word."

Gibbs looked skeptical, and McGee looked crestfallen. Still, Gibbs said, "She might be multilingual, McGee. You know, romance languages?"

McGee nodded, his expression tired and sad.

Gibbs continued, "But if you think something's wrong, let's go talk to her again."

McGee was up like a shot from the uncomfortable chair, but Gibbs' question slowed him slightly.

"When did you learn to speak Spanish?"

"Tony's been teaching me," McGee said, feeling a bit embarrassed and not sure why.

"And he started with pickup lines," Gibbs said, grinning despite the pain of remembering Tony's devilish grins and the fear that he may never see one again. "Go figure."

They stepped out into the warm summer evening and both stopped cold.

Staring them straight in the face was Mrs. Hernandez's great big SUV, the white BFGoodrich name standing out starkly from the tires.

"Shit, Boss," McGee said, running to the vehicle and dropping to his knees. He made a quick sweep under it and pulled out his bloody hand. "That's not oil."

"They never left the area," Gibbs said, furious. "Stone just made it _look_ like a vehicle had left in a hurry."

"And then pulled the car back into the driveway to cover the blood," McGee spat, wishing he had checked the "oil" the woman in the house had mentioned.

The agents had no idea who this "Mrs. Hernandez" was or what connection she had to their missing friends, but Gibbs and McGee pulled their guns simultaneously and moved toward the house.

Just as they heard the gunshot from within.

* * *

Tony dropped Miriam Shah with one round to the chest.

And then he dropped the gun.

His green eyes met Ziva's dark ones and said all of the apologies his damaged, stunned mouth couldn't manage. He hoped the gunshot would bring help, knowing a basement soundproofed for a child musician was no match for a Colt .45's thunderous report. He hoped Stone wouldn't grab the gun as he grabbed the back of Ziva's chair and dragged her to the stairs. He hoped the flash of terror in her eyes wouldn't be his last memory of her.

He got at least one wish as Stone ignored the gun.

But he couldn't decide if the big hunting knife hanging from the killer's belt was better.

Or infinitely worse.

* * *

It wasn't the first time Gibbs wanted to run straight to a basement.

But the agent knew the rules, and he and McGee exchanged a silent glance on the porch before making their entry and clearing the rest of the house.

They found Agent Rita Russell's blood-soaked body in a bedroom upstairs but wasted no time in trying to help the woman who was so obviously beyond help.

They ran back down the stairs and found the entrance to the basement.

Both stopped short as soon as Gibbs threw open the door.

At the bottom of the staircase, a female body was splayed on her back in a growing pool of bright red blood. Her face was obscured by her dark, curly hair, but the dusky complexion of her exposed skin made one thing clear.

Someone born in the Middle East had died in this house in Quantico, Virginia.

* * *

The worst part for Ziva was not Stone's heavy body pressed on top of hers. It was not the viselike grip he had on her, pinning her to the ground with one big hand choking both of her wrists. It was not his reeking breath puffing out across her face. It was not even his other hand, still leaking blood from her bullet, wrapped viciously around her throat, keeping her from breathing a word—keeping her from _breathing. _

It was when McGee opened the back door of the house, swept the dark backyard with two textbook glances and yelled "Clear!"

Ziva lay in the storage shed, trapped under a murdering rapist's body, and she realized she had lied to Tony.

She was not ready to die.

Even if it had been true then, after months in that Somali cell with the pigs who had tried to break her, it was not true now.

She was not broken.

And with her hope of help disappeared back into the house, Ziva knew she was on her own again. No one would get her out of this but herself. And she knew she needed no one else to get her out of this.

She put her best sultry look into her eyes and saw Stone respond immediately. The choking pressure on her throat eased, and then it was gone.

"I will not scream," she rasped, hoping the damage to her neck would not swell and kill her before she had a chance to save herself. "I cannot."

Stone shrugged. "Go ahead and try. Those agents will be busy with our friends for a while."

Ziva pushed images of Tony's bloody face and pain-doused eyes out of her head, and she wriggled her hands, testing Stone's grip. It was solid. Too solid. And with her arms held above her head and her body pinned beneath her captor's, Ziva could not move an inch. She looked up into Stone's leering face and felt his hardness against her thigh.

And suddenly she was in that cell again.

There were two men this time, A and F, she was fairly certain. She had told Tony that she gave them names, but in truth she gave them designations. She could not bear to humanize them—to humanize her experiences. It was better if she did not think of it as sex—because it was not sex. Sex was loving and beautiful and something to be shared, not something to be endured. Sex was not a weapon, a bargaining tool or an implement of torture.

So Ziva retreated inside her head while these designations were inside her body. These swine could touch every part of her body—and they did, with roving, pinching, hurting hands and painful, tearing, soul-rending hardness.

But no matter how many times they penetrated her body, they could not get inside her mind.

So that is where Ziva went during the daily torture sessions. She went clubbing with Abby, to the opera with Ducky. She wore a fancy dress and went to a book release party with McGee. She built a boat with Gibbs and watched a movie with Tony. And on the darker days—the sun always rose, but that did not mean it brought light into her black little world—she went picking wildflowers with Tali, went for long walks with Ari.

Eventually she realized she was giving up her body to these men. But she was beyond caring then.

Now, lying under this pig who thought he could own the body she had so recently begun to recover, she realized she was pissed.

Beyond pissed.

And so she waited. Ziva waited until Stone's right hand began to loosen on her sweaty wrists. She waited until his left hand disappeared under her blouse. And even though she felt the swift tide of revulsion wash through her entire being as his thumb brushed her nipple, she also felt flooded with resolve. She drew a deep breath and shrieked for all she was worth, sheer will overriding the physical damage to her throat.

Because honestly, was it not time that she stopped screaming on the inside?

She drove her knee into Stone's crotch for the second time that night and slid out of his grasp, aided by their combined sweat on this humid evening. Her aim was not so true this time, though, and she saw the flash of the knife as he plucked it from his belt.

She kicked out fiercely without a moment's hesitation and scrambled backward, crablike but swift.

Just as the knife came slicing down.

* * *

It wasn't the worst scene Gibbs or McGee had ever seen.

And yet somehow it was.

Never before had the uncertainty of a victim's identity been so excruciating _painful. _

Never before had another victim's status been so unbearably _uncertain_.

Gibbs recovered first and charged down the stairs, his hand hovering over the dark hair for only a second—an eternity for the seasoned veteran agent—before he brushed it back and revealed the death mask of Miriam Shah, or "Mrs. Hernandez," as McGee knew her.

Gibbs heard McGee's gasp of sheer relief, but he was already moving toward the body of their teammate, his head hanging limply, his arms and legs still strapped to the chair. When Tony lifted his head, Gibbs—the seasoned veteran agent—flinched hard but still kept moving despite the blood and swelling making his friend almost unrecognizable.

Pulling his ever-present knife, Gibbs sliced through the restraints and pulled Tony close to him as he eased the damaged body to the floor.

"McGee!" Gibbs called.

And wasn't surprised to find the agent already shrugging out of his jacket and placing it under Tony's head.

"Tony?" Gibbs said softly, seeing that Tony's one good eye had slipped closed again.

Tony blinked awake again at the sound of his boss's voice. "Ziva… Gibbs… go… hurry… Stone… gone… knife," he said, the words punctuated with harsh gasps but pouring out in a rush anyway.

Gibbs reached down and cupped Tony's swollen face, not caring that he was smearing his palm with blood. "Slow down, DiNozzo," he ordered gently. But it was still an order. "Tell me where she is."

"Stone," was all Tony managed to get out before both eyes were closed again.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs barked, giving the hand on Tony's cheek a little shake. He would hate himself for hurting Tony later. He would _never stop _hating himself if he didn't get to Ziva in time.

"Up," Tony said, and Gibbs knew that was all he was going to get.

Still he hesitated.

There was blood pouring from Tony's mouth and nose with every ragged breath he took, and his hand looked like it was in pieces. Gibbs turned his gaze away from the gleaming whiteness of the bone sticking through the skin and looked straight at Tony's face.

"Go, Gibbs," Tony said, his words stronger but slurred so badly that the lead agent had to take a moment to register the bleeding attempt at communication. "She needs you."

Gibbs' icy blue eyes went positively glacial—both at the thought of Stone hurting Ziva and at the obvious pain in Tony's green gaze.

The injured agent huffed out a labored breath and Gibbs knew it was hurting him to continue—but still he soldiered on. "At least I can… scare the probie… into not ratting on me… if I pass out."

McGee realized Tony was reaching for him and he took his teammate's badly broken hand gently in his, trying to support the sickeningly shifting bones. McGee looked up from Tony's bloody face. "I've got him, Boss."

Gibbs gave McGee a nod and looked Tony in the eye that wasn't swollen shut. "Not if you're unconscious, DiNozzo," he said. He squeezed Tony's shoulder and added softly, "Hang in there, Tony."

"On it… Boss," Tony managed. "Go get our girl."

Gibbs nodded and got up with crackling knees to turn and run for the staircase.

Only to nearly run smack into Ziva.

The agent gripped the railing weakly, the knife planted firmly in her thigh. She took in the bloody scene and looked down at her own bleeding wound. She laughed a shocky little giggle and said, " 'Tis just a flesh wound!' "

McGee would have sworn he saw Tony smile at the movie reference.

"Stone?" was all Gibbs asked.

"Stone is… stone-dead," she said triumphantly.

And then she passed out cold into Gibbs' waiting arms.


	20. Chapter 20

Abby walked out of the rain and into the ER, the expression on her face reflecting the black clouds still hanging over her.

She marched up to the front desk, boots clomping, chains rattling and black leather rain slicker dripping, and she flashed her ID, faking confidence and demanding to know the conditions of her agents.

"One undercover op, _Mina_, and now they're 'your' agents?"

Abby turned and opened her mouth before she even knew what she was going to say. But her mouth was frozen at the sight of Gibbs and the dark bloodstains on his clothes.

"Gibbs," she whispered, moving toward him but afraid to collapse into his arms as she desperately longed to. She simply looked up into his worried blue eyes and asked, "Whose?"

Gibb understood the question—and Abby's shudder as she gave in and melted against him, her damp clothes not enough to mask the very different wetness she felt on him. "Both," he said softly, ignoring echoes of Tony's pained gasps as McGee had propped the injured agent against his body to keep him from choking on his own blood. Gibbs could still feel the blood pumping from the knife wound in Ziva's thigh and he flexed his hands behind Abby's back to shake the unsettling sensation.

Abby pulled back. "McGee barely told me anything," she said, looking around for the agent. "How are they?"

"Bathroom washing up," Gibbs said in answer to the silent question. He knew McGee would be fiercely scrubbing Tony's blood from under his fingernails at this very moment—and likely from his nightmares for years to come. He moved on to the asked question. "Ziva took a knife to the thigh."

He held up his hands against an onslaught of information about the amount of blood carried by the femoral artery.

"She was only out for a few minutes, and she came around in the ambulance," Gibbs said, keeping to himself the panic in her eyes as she had sat up and looked around wildly, ignoring her own wound and asking about her partner. "She even joked that she'd beat DiNozzo out of the hospital."

"Did Tony give her hell?" Abby asked, looking frightened of the answer and making Gibbs kick himself.

"Separate ambulance. McGee took good care of him," Gibbs said, pretending not to notice his agent walking up to them. McGee looked pale and shaken—and his hands red and raw as Tony's cheek had been after Kate—but Gibbs knew he would hold it together.

"But is he…?" Abby said, not sure she wanted to know what Tony was considering the blood on McGee's clothes.

"He was hurting, Abbs," McGee said, letting that explain the seriousness of the injured agent's condition without giving the scientist specifics to dwell on. "But they doped him up pretty good and then I couldn't get him to shut up about penguins and Bob Saget."

"Ah," Abby said, nodding. " 'Farce of the Penguins.' Great spoof of the Disney movie."

McGee winced, thinking about Ziva's prediction of Tony's last words being a movie reference. But he shook it off, knowing Tony had been suffering and then rather out of it, but also remembering Tony's attempt at a smile. _"I'm fine, Probie. I'm always fine."_

Abby saw the look and asked, "Are you okay, Timmy? You didn't get hurt taking those sickos down, did you?"

McGee cracked a smile. "There was nothing left to do by the time we got there," he said. "Tony and Ziva took care of both of them."

Abby nodded, figuring that Tony and Ziva had probably taken care of each other, too. "Where are they?" she asked suddenly, turning at the movement behind her.

Ducky wrapped her in a hug and said, "Still in surgery, my dear. But you need not worry, Abigail. The doctors are nearly finished repairing the damage to Ziva's thigh and she'll be as good as new in no time. And one of the best hand surgeons in the world is working on Anthony's damaged digits. He'll be a bit longer, but it is quite the delicate work so let's not rush him, shall we?"

Gibbs smiled, this time letting his overwhelming relief show. He spoke before Abby could ask just how bad that hand was—or before he himself could dwell on what he had seen of the swollen, broken mess. "You call in a favor, Duck?"

Ducky grinned back. "Anything for a friend, Jethro."

McGee couldn't quite match the grin because he was still feeling the broken ribs shifting in Tony's side as he'd held him upright while waiting for the ambulance—and watching Gibbs kneeling over Ziva's limp body, trying to keep her from bleeding to death. "What about the rest of him, Ducky?" he asked tentatively, his eyes flicking to where Abby was back to holding onto Gibbs like a lifeline.

Ducky's face went grim and he tried not to think about the severity of the bruising covering Tony's body as the agent was stripped of his bloody clothes and prepped for the long, delicate surgery on his damaged hand. Instead, he focused on the much more promising CT scan the kind doctor had shared. "Anthony's injuries include a broken nose, some broken ribs and also a bit of internal bleeding—"

The doctor heard Abby's soft gasp and saw Gibbs tighten his arms around the shaking Goth.

"I assure you his doctors are monitoring it very closely, and it is only minor, Abby," Ducky continued, addressing her specifically to ease her fears. He caught McGee's worried eyes and looked the young agent over, knowing the blood on his clothing wasn't all from Tony's hand. "You did a good job, Timothy, of keeping him from swallowing the blood. That is important, and it was good, quick thinking."

Ducky saw the slightly detached nod and he frowned hard, taking in the shell-shocked look of the group. "Really, they will just need some time to heal, and they both will be all right. Tony and Ziva are two of the strongest people I know."

Gibbs met Ducky's eye and nodded, believing the doctor about Tony's and Ziva's physical recoveries.

It was the unspoken damage that Gibbs was worried about.

* * *

Ziva really hated waking up in hospitals.

And it did not matter whether it was an American hospital, an Israeli one or a medical tent hastily set up in some remote location, they all had the same antiseptic smell, the same sense of warring hope and despair, the same reminders that life could change in the blink of an eye.

The same memories of every other time she had come awake under the crisp sheets of a hospital bed.

"Welcome back, Ziver."

A smile touched her lips at the soft words and she opened her eyes to find Gibbs sitting beside her, coffee in hand. She was shocked by how quickly she let her eyes close again, feeling wrapped in warmth and safety at the sight, at those simple words.

She blamed the drugs.

"Doctors repaired the knife wound," Gibbs said. "They said no permanent damage."

Ziva's eyes flew open at those last two words and she struggled to sit up, fighting the gentle grip Gibbs had on her shoulder. She could feel the calluses on his fingers through the thin hospital gown and she met his concerned blue gaze with wide, dark eyes.

"Easy," Gibbs soothed, watching panic flick across her bruised face. "Are you in pain, Ziva?"

She shook her head slowly and lifted her hand, covering the one Gibbs still had on her shoulder. She opened her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut against sudden tears—and then opened them again when all she saw on the backs of her lids was Stone slamming his fist into Tony's body and Miri brutally twisting and snapping Tony's fingers like matchsticks.

"Still in surgery," Gibbs said, answering the question Ziva could not put a voice to.

She let him ease her back down onto the bed, and she was suddenly grateful for the painkillers. Not only could she not feel the knife wound in her thigh or the throbbing in her face where Miri had hit her, but she also knew the drugs were helping to calm her racing mind.

But she was still glad when Gibbs continued, his voice low and soothing.

"His hand is a mess," he said, still sitting on the bed beside his injured agent and smoothing a hand over her tangled hair. Ziva was suddenly thinking of Kelly, and she figured Gibbs just might be, too. "But Ducky pulled some strings and got one of the best hand surgeons in the world here to work on it. He's got some broken bones and minor internal bleeding from the beating, but Ducky says it's nothing too severe and he'll be okay."

Ziva sank back even farther into the plush pillows with her relief at hearing that her partner was going to be all right. She saw a flash of Agents Russell and Rios that day they were awkwardly playing couple and she felt tears sting her eyes.

"Really, Ziva," Gibbs said, putting a gentle hand on the back of hers. "He's DiNozzo. He's got plenty of years left to annoy the hell out of us."

Ziva just nodded, unable to correct him as to the cause of her grief. "The woman was Miriam Shah, not Shaw as she let the police believe," she said, needing to change the subject—both of them. She watched Gibbs raise an eyebrow at that and she continued, "I am surprised you did not stay and process the scene."

She saw the flicker of disbelief in her boss's eyes and felt immediately guilty when he tried to keep the hard edge out of his tone and said, "I don't abandon my people when they need me, Ziva. You and Tony are more important to me than two dead killers ever will be."

She stayed silent, letting that statement hang between them and giving it the consideration it deserved. Still she could not help saying, "I am also surprised you did not go in the ambulance with Tony. He needed you."

Ziva did not need her years of experience to read the shocked disbelief on Gibbs' face—or the pain.

"Ziver," he breathed, taking up the hand he was still touching and giving it a squeeze. She could practically see him fighting his usual stoicism and she expected some biting retort. But he just brushed a hand over her hair again and said, "You needed me more."

The injured agent blinked back tears—and tried to curse the drugs again. But she knew it was the steadiness in Gibbs' blue eyes that was making her want to sob out all of the pain she had held in that day on the tarmac in Israel with a plane's engines thrumming away impatiently in the background. She knew Gibbs was also thinking of that day, but she never would have imagined in her wildest dreams the words that fell from his lips as he stroked her hand.

"I screwed up, kid," he whispered, watching the tears finally fall from Ziva's anguished eyes. "I should have dragged you onto that plane kicking and screaming, and sorted things out when we got back here. If I could go back and change it—change everything that happened after—you know I would. I'm sorry, Ziva."

She could only nod—and let herself be wrapped up in the strong embrace of her shaking mentor's arms. And she finally let go. She cried as if the world were ending, not caring that she was soaking Gibbs' shirt with snot and tears, and gasping as if she had run several marathons. She cried for the father she had lost—and found herself shedding tears also for the daughter Gibbs had lost. She cried for the little girl she herself had once been, and she cried for her mistakes, past and present. She found herself re-crying tears for Tali and even for Ari, and then cried some more for the pain Tony had suffered for her, past and present. And finally she cried for herself, for what she had been put through in that cell in Somalia and would spend the rest of her life trying to forget.

Later, when she was as exhausted as the tears, she sniffled and found herself smiling an embarrassed little smile. She looked up and found Gibbs looking down at her, a faint smile of his own on his lips even before she spoke.

"I think I might have ruined your shirt, Gibbs."

He tucked two fingers under her chin and laughed lightly. "Was already ruined when you were bleeding all over me, David," he said, still grinning. "Don't worry about it."

* * *

Gibbs walked down the hallway and nodded a thank you to McGee, who was leading an exhausted Abby from Tony's room.

"Ziva's resting," he said, glancing into the darkened room. "DiNozzo awake yet?"

McGee gave a small smile that showed his enormous relief after so many hours of bone-crushing fear for his friends. "He woke up long enough to ask about Ziva, ask about Stone and ask for a pizza."

Abby smiled, too, even though she looked about to fall over. "In that order," she said, watching relief flick through Gibbs' blue eyes. The smile faded. "And then he passed out again. He's really hurting, Bossman. And his hand, what if it's—"

"Abby."

Abby nodded. "Right. Positive thinking."

Gibbs nodded back and eyed his tired subordinates. "You two go home and get some rest. I'll keep an eye on him. On both of them."

McGee shook his head fiercely. "No, Gibbs," he said firmly. "We're going to see Ziva. Even if it's just to watch her sleep. She needs us."

Gibbs gave his consent with another nod and hoped they would see the pride in his eyes even if he couldn't quite say it out loud. He watched them until they had disappeared into Ziva's room, and then he turned and entered Tony's. His eyes immediately went to the carefully propped up mass of bandages swallowing DiNozzo's left hand to the wrist, and Gibbs sat at his right side, picking up the uninjured hand and letting it rest on his so as not to disturb the IV. He let his gaze trail up to Tony's battered face and he winced at the swollen and bruised features, feeling somewhat relieved that he couldn't see the rest of the damage the beating had left.

"You did good, DiNozzo," he said softly, knowing instinctively that Tony had held out as long as he could in order to spare Ziva.

There was no response and Gibbs just sat there for a long while, holding the injured agent's hand and wondering what he could have done—_should have _done—to have spared Tony.

Finally, the hand twitched in Gibbs' and the lead agent watched Tony blink his way back into consciousness. His left eye was still swollen shut, but Gibbs had never been so glad to see that flash of green in his life. He squeezed Tony's good hand a little tighter and watched his tongue dart between bruised lips.

"Ziva?" he croaked, sounding as if he'd been gargling with rusty nails.

Gibbs realized just how out of it Tony was and that he probably didn't remember his conversation with McGee and Abby. "Knife to the thigh, but the doctors say she'll be just fine with some rest."

He felt the tension drain out of Tony's hand at that. "Stone's dead," he said, answering the question before Tony could ask it because Gibbs knew the havoc caused by having a tube stuck down your throat during a long surgery.

Tony nodded and let his working eyelid slide closed. Gibbs thought he had slipped back into unconsciousness and wondered how many times he would need to have this conversation before his injured, drugged agent would remember it.

But then Tony whispered, "Fucked up, Boss."

Gibbs winced at both the hoarseness and the pain in those words that had nothing to do with a sore throat or battered body. "Quiet, DiNozzo," he said, using the same soothing tone he had with Ziva. "Don't. Just rest."

There was another flash of green and Gibbs was surprised by the anger and the force Tony managed to put behind his words. "Rios and Russell are dead because of me."

"_Tony_," Gibbs said. "Knock that off, right now. I don't want to hear that crap from you again, you hear me?"

Tony stayed silent but Gibbs was not fooled.

"Dammit, DiNozzo," Gibbs exploded, all of his fear and frustration from long day of not knowing whether his agents were dead or alive coloring his tone an angry red. He took a breath to calm himself and continued, "We don't know what happened. We may never know now that Stone and Shah are dead."

"Wrong, Gibbs," Tony said, swallowing against the rough dryness in his aching throat. "They made the op. They knew we were agents."

There were a thousand questions Gibbs wanted to ask his agent. But he tucked them all away and gave Tony's hand another squeeze. "Whatever happened, Tony, you and Ziva are going to be all right. Mission accomplished—the killers are dead."

"And so are two good agents," Tony said, his hoarseness not muting the sorrow or the anger from his tone. He jerked his hand out of Gibbs' with a slight wince. "Get out, Gibbs."

"Tony," Gibbs breathed, lifting a hand to touch Tony's bruised cheek. The injured agent couldn't get up and leave, but he had closed his eyes tightly and was running away in the only way he could. "Look at me."

"Get out. I don't deserve the hand-holding, Gibbs." He paused, keeping his eyes shut. He whispered, "I don't want it."

Gibbs opened his mouth to argue that but a voice from the doorway stopped him.

"What's going on in here?"

Gibbs glanced at the doctor and watched the young man move to a monitor beside Tony's bed before turning angry eyes back to the agent. "You need to leave. You're upsetting him and that's the last thing he needs right now. "

Gibbs started to protest but the doctor cut him off.

"Out, now. He needs to rest."

With a sigh and a final pat on the back of Tony's wrist, Gibbs stood.

"I'll be right outside, Tony."


	21. Chapter 21

Gibbs spent the rest of the night drinking bad coffee and shuffling between rooms, watching his agents—and Abby—sleep. The Goth awoke just as Gibbs had gotten a refill, and gotten kicked out of Tony's room for the second time that night. He tried to remind the doctor that Tony was stuffed to the gills with painkillers and sedatives and wouldn't notice his presence, but the young doctor held firm. Gibbs would have given him credit had it not been so damned infuriating.

Abby lifted the cup out of Gibbs' hand and took a long swallow, making a sour face.

"Gah," she said, shaking her head and disentangling from McGee's loose embrace. "I should run that through the mass-spec and check it for toxic waste." She took another sip. "How's Tony?"

Gibbs jerked his chin toward the door and left the room so as not to wake Ziva or McGee, and he slumped against the wall outside as Abby sank tiredly into a chair. She wasn't sure how Gibbs was still upright at nearly 0600, but the strength of the coffee still stinging her mouth was a good clue.

"He's so out of it he won't even notice I keep getting kicked out by that damned doctor," Gibbs said, sighing. "Kid doesn't look old enough to shave, let alone save a life."

Gibbs knew it was a bad sign that Abby was too tired to ask. So he continued, "I upset him enough to make it show on his heart monitor. DiNozzo's blaming himself for Russell and Rios."

"Should he be?"

Abby's question made Gibbs remember just why he had hired the feisty young scientist. But she proved her loyalty with her next statement. "I just can't see Tony or Ziva blowing this operation—no matter what was going on between them."

"I can't either, Abbs," Gibbs said, finally giving in and slumping down into a chair beside her. He wanted to drag Ziva's bed into Tony's room and get answers from both of them, but that was out of the question, considering their combined conditions. "And we may never know, depending on how much Tony and Ziva got out of them before they killed the bastards."

Gibbs expected more questions—or just more chatter from Abby. But she just stood and held out her hands. "Come on, Bossman. I'm taking you home."

"I think that would be an excellent idea," Ducky said as he ambled up to the pair. He bravely plucked the coffee from Gibbs' hand and deposited it into the trash where it belonged. "There is nothing more to do for our friends this morning seeing as they are both resting comfortably. Take Timothy with you, Abigail, would you? He has had a very long night as well."

Gibbs was already shaking his head. "I don't want 'em to wake up alone, Duck. Either of them."

Ducky pulled a stern face. "Anthony has been heavily sedated following his…" he gave Gibbs a look, "excitement earlier, and the doctors plan to keep him as quiet as possible until they are certain the internal bleeding is under control. He likely won't be waking for quite some time. And I will be staying with Ziva, though she too will probably sleep for most of the day. Off you go, Jethro. And do not give Abby a fight. She has had just as long a night as the rest of you."

"Not gonna happen, Duck," Gibbs said, putting his hands on Abby's shoulders. "Take McGee. I'm staying."

Abby gave a frustrated half-growl but knew it was useless. Ducky shook his head and harrumphed his displeasure, but he too gave in.

"Abby, you take McGee home. Lock him in the coffin if you have to. You take DiNozzo," Gibbs said to Ducky. "I've already been kicked out. Twice."

* * *

Gibbs awoke from a catnap in Ziva's room later that morning to find the agent sleeping soundly, her slight snoring bringing a smile to his face. The smile faded as he addressed Ducky's sudden appearance.

Gibbs sat up Marine-straight and blinked quickly. "DiNozzo okay?"

"He is fine, Jethro," Ducky said. "Still out like a light, and I suspect he will be for a while. It will keep him from getting excited and aggravating the bleeding, which, his doctor tells me, has stopped, according to his scans. And that is very good news."

Gibbs nodded, flicking a glance toward Ziva. "There any good news about his hand?" He watched Ducky's eyes follow his to Ziva's sleeping form. "I noticed you haven't brought it up in front of them."

The doctor's mouth tightened down into a grim line. "Perhaps we should move this discussion outside?"

Gibbs hesitated.

"Come," Ducky said, a slight smile lightening his face briefly. "The way she is snoring, we should be more concerned about her waking the patients down in the morgue."

The agent rolled his eyes and stood, stretching carefully and ignoring the soft remonstration in Ducky's eyes. They moved out into the hall, and Gibbs sank back into a chair, grateful even though it was seriously uncomfortable. He ignored the echoes of _I'm getting too old for this_ that were bouncing in his tired, overly caffeinated brain and focused on Ducky, who sat beside him but did not speak.

"That bad, huh?" Gibbs said softly, realizing that while Tony might be on his way to recovery, it didn't mean he would ever be fully recovered from this.

Ducky shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, only to be cut off by Gibbs.

"Tell it to me straight, Duck," he said. "We've been friends too long for you to start lying to me now. "

Ducky nodded. "He has multiple breaks and dislocations to his fingers, but he is lucky in that the breaks are quite clean." The doctor's expression darkened despite that good news. "This bastard knew what he was doing, that is for certain. The breaks in the metacarpals, the bones in the back of his hand, are also relatively clean. There are a lot of fractures, but none of the bones was shattered beyond repair, as can happen with severe crush injuries. My good friend told me he used more pins than he could count to stabilize the hand and fingers, and those will need to be removed in four to six weeks, depending on how quickly Anthony heals. He also has several plates and screws holding the broken bones in place."

"More surgery?" Gibbs asked, fighting off the question everyone had been ignoring since seeing the damage to Tony's hand.

"I'm afraid so," Ducky said. "Perhaps more than one, depending on several factors. But the plates and screws can likely remain, so long as they aren't bothersome. The main enemy of hand injuries is stiffness, and there's a delicate balance of splinting long enough to stabilize the bones but not so long as to exacerbate that stiffness. The key will be physical therapy—a very, very large amount of it—and also Anthony's attitude during and toward that therapy."

That statement made Gibbs give up the ghost and ask, "He ever going to be able to hold a gun with that hand?" The agent swallowed hard, knowing that Tony, much like him, simply _was_ the job. "Ever be able to qualify on a range with it?"

Ducky sighed heavily. "This is where I should tell you to be glad he is still breathing." He held up a hand. "But I know that won't be good enough for either of you. I also know that Anthony's scores on the range are always near perfect—with both hands. That skill, and the long hours of practice needed to build that skill, will be invaluable when he is ready to requalify."

" 'When,' Ducky?" Gibbs asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. "Not 'if'?"

"Yes, I believe so," Ducky said honestly. "If he applies himself, really devotes himself to his recovery, then I believe he will be able to return to the field. You should believe that, too, Jethro, because he's going to need a lot of support and a lot of reassurance from all of us in the coming months. You're no stranger to rehabilitation yourself so you know there will be good days, bad days and positively wretched days ahead. He just needs to know that we are all there for him no matter what kind of day he is having."

Gibbs closed his eyes and let the relief wash over him. He had no problems with helping Tony through whatever lay ahead, and while he knew Ducky was right about bad days being almost a certainty, he also held strong to his motto of "No man left behind." A memory swam up from Gibbs' tired subconscious and he opened his eyes to find Ducky watching him closely.

"Ah, Duck?" Gibbs asked, sounding a bit uncertain. "What about his…"

"His…?" Ducky asked, confused.

Gibbs let out a long breath. "He's a hell of a piano player, Ducky," he said, not sure if anyone on the team knew that. Tony sure as hell didn't advertise it, he knew. "Or at least he was. Will he ever play again?"

Ducky smiled softly, sadly, and he was touched that Gibbs was obviously not only worried about Tony as an agent but also as a friend. "I'm aware that Anthony is a very gifted musician," he said, taking Gibbs slightly by surprise. "Only time will tell, but I'm afraid he may never play the way he used to."

Gibbs winced, thinking about that stiffness Ducky had mentioned, even as another thought arose. "Pain?" Another thought followed quickly as the doctor nodded. "Is he always going to be in pain?"

Ducky took a moment before answering. "Perhaps. Again, there are so many factors—the biggest being Anthony himself—but he'll always have physical reminders of an injury this severe. And not just the scars from the surgeries or from where the broken bone breached his skin."

_Like DiNozzo needs any more scars_, Gibbs thought before shoving the darkness away. He knew he was going to have to take a page from Abby's book and maintain positive thoughts.

Just as Gibbs was about to try out that foreign concept, Ducky asked, "Has he said anything about his injuries? Asked questions?"

Gibbs shook his head, knowing Tony would never show just how scared he was of losing his status as a field agent. But Gibbs had seen the injured agent's gaze land on his bandaged hand several times during the short while he had been awake earlier. Gibbs selfishly hoped that fear was part of the reason Tony had been so angry with him.

"He was too busy blaming himself for Rios' and Russell's deaths."

Ducky sighed. "Someone needs to teach that boy that not everything is his fault."

Gibbs nodded, but Ducky saw the look in his eyes.

"Their deaths were not Anthony's fault. Or Ziva's," Ducky stated. He paused, frowning tightly. "Were they?"

"I don't know, Duck," Gibbs admitted, staring at the floor. "I do know that I need some answers."

"Well, Jethro, I'm afraid you're not going to like what I've got to say then. Your agents are in no condition to be interrogated."

Gibbs bit back a protest at that and simply let Ducky finish even though he already knew what the doctor was going to say.

"You're simply going to have to wait."


	22. Chapter 22

The next two days were spent in a rotating cycle of Gibbs, Ducky, Abby and McGee spending the hours split between Tony's and Ziva's hospital rooms. Abby had suggested getting them moved into a double, but Gibbs had quickly vetoed the idea, knowing the combination of Ziva's growing frustration at her immobility and Tony's painkiller-induced loopiness was a particular volatile one.

So they cycled, carefully talking about pleasant nothings with Ziva to avoid the case and unable to avoid any topic with Tony, whose drug-addled brain skipped along like Goldilocks on meth.

Except that no topic was too hot, as McGee found out when Tony's eyes had locked onto a Denny's commercial and he had begun discussing his favorite sexual positions in detail. McGee had no idea what "reverse cowgirl" had to do with the Grand Slam breakfast special, but he was fairly certain that was intel he had no need to know.

Ever.

McGee was just fleeing a confused Tony and a maniacally laughing Abby when he about ran smack into Gibbs, who had spent the most time with Tony's babbling chatter, much to everyone's surprise. McGee expected Gibbs to make him take Abby with him—because apparently Gibbs could handle Tony's temporary insanity, but not when Abby made helpful suggestions like yesterday's, "Hey, Tony, what do you think about the symbolism of the color red in the 'Sixth Sense'?" Or this morning's, "Hey, Tony, ever wonder why we drive on parkways and park on driveways?"

The only hairy moment had occurred when Abby had turned on a music station and immediately jumped up with all the energy of a half-dozen CafPow!s and started doing the "Macarena"—to a rap song. Gibbs, McGee and the gyrating Goth had found themselves suddenly watching tears stream down Tony's face as he stared at his swaddled hand, frozen in midair. McGee wasn't sure if the sudden silent crying was from the pain of moving the damaged hand—the contents of those bandages something McGee did _not_ want to think about—or from Tony's inability to perform the hand motions of the dance. But Gibbs had defused the moment with a gentle headslap and a "Get over it, DiNozzo. It's not like you had rhythm _before_ the damage." Tony had looked devastated for a moment. But then he wiped away the tears—very carefully using the conveniently absorbent gauze on his hand—and smiled up at Gibbs, saying, "Thanks, Boss. I really like tacos," before passing out cold.

Fingers snapped in front of McGee's face.

"You been tapping Tony's IV line, Elf Lord?"

McGee laughed out loud and shook his head. "Sorry, Boss. Just spaced out."

"Well, get it together, McGee," Gibbs said without heat, nodding behind the agent. "We've got work to do."

He turned to find Ziva glaring at him from a wheelchair, pushed by a harried-looking Ducky. McGee didn't take offense to the glare. He knew Ziva's ire was directed at her recent lack of independence. At least he hoped so. Even pale and disheveled, he figured Ziva could still find a way to kill him with nothing but a hospital gown and funny-colored jello.

"I am ready to give my statement, Gibbs," she said, her hands folded on her lap as if she didn't know what to do with them.

McGee was still scrubbing images of Tony in bed with a girl wearing a cowboy hat—and nothing else—so he said, "Boss? I don't know if Tony is up to … uh, real conversations right now."

Gibbs sighed, rolling his eyes and giving him a look that said he knew that. There was a reason Gibbs had ignored Tony's earlier anger and let it fade—Gibbs wasn't even sure if the injured agent remembered the conversation. But Gibbs just said, "With his hand like that, he's going to be on those painkillers for a while. You feeling like waiting, McGee? Or telling him he can't have them?"

The junior agent shivered, thinking about all of those gummy bones in Tony's broken hand and the way he had tried to keep those fingers from bending at points that were obviously _not_ the joints he was born with. McGee knew those painkillers were the only thing keeping Tony from screaming his head off all day long. "Right, Boss. Gotcha."

They filed into the room and Ducky parked Ziva's wheelchair near the foot of the bed, all of them ignoring the shock on Ziva's face at how bad Tony looked. They had had time to get used to the massive bruising, swelling and split lips, but Ziva was seeing her partner for the first time since being dragged away by a killer, thinking it might be the last time she would see him.

"You did not have to get all dressed up for me," Ziva said quietly, eyeing his matching hospital gown and trying to smile.

" 'S'like a party," Tony returned, but Gibbs could see that his heavily drugged agent knew why the group had gathered.

"You both ready?" Gibbs asked, drawing odd looks from the team. "We can take more time if you need it. Either of you."

Tony looked slightly frightened when Gibbs looked directly at him when he said that. He leaned over and touched Abby with his good hand and whispered, "Poke him and make sure it's the real Gibbs?"

Abby rolled her eyes and did as she was told. She leaned back conspiratorially. "It's really him. I think he's stuffed with coffee beans."

Tony nodded and looked to Ziva, signaling his desire for her to carry this conversation while he provided what he could from his floating place.

"We entered the house and found Rios dead," Ziva said, her tone blank—even when she saw Tony flinch. She paused, wondering if Tony should even be here for this considering the drugs' effects, so powerful that he couldn't erase the guilt from his face with one of his ready-made masks. He gave her a little nod and she continued, "We followed the blood trail to the house next door and went inside."

"Why didn't you wait for backup?" Gibbs asked, keeping his tone just as blank. Ducky was right that the last thing either of them needed right now was an interrogation, and Gibbs fought to remember that.

"You saw the blood, Gibbs," Ziva said calmly. "Someone was badly injured—and likely dying. We heard a woman's scream and had no choice but to go into the house."

"Scream was probably Shah," McGee said, thinking about Russell's body, torn open with vicious stabs wounds. He realized Ziva didn't know that and offered only, "We found Russell's body upstairs but the pools of blood weren't there. She was probably dead before they hit the stairs."

"One of them pulled the SUV into the driveway over the bloodstains," Gibbs said, answering Ziva's question before she asked it.

"Shah gave me a line about an oil leak," McGee said, sounding disgusted with himself. "If I would have checked it, we could have found two before…" He trailed off, glancing from Tony's hand to Ziva's leg.

"You had no reason to suspect her," Ziva said. "It is not your fault."

"I cleared the backyard, Ziva," McGee said, his voice rising slightly. "I know you killed Stone in the shed. You _were out there_ when I called it clear."

Gibbs gave the young agent a warning look, saying without words that if Tony and Ziva could get through this without getting upset, then McGee needed to do the same.

"It was dark and that shed was at the back of the property, McGee," Ziva said calmly. "I did not even see it until he dragged me out there."

"What happened out there?" Gibbs asked, hoping like hell they wouldn't have to add rape to the dead man's offenses.

"He…" Ziva started before pausing to draw a breath. She found Tony had gotten his working eye open and she found strength again in his strength. "He pinned me down, intent on raping me. I started to get away, but he stabbed me. And then I pulled my backup knife put it through his eye."

Gibbs thought back to the conversations they'd had about Ziva carrying weapons, and he was glad she had disobeyed that order. "That's how you got your leg free from the chair," Gibbs said, thinking back to the clean cuts through the tape—and the much more jagged ones on the left leg. "You shoot Shah or did Tony?"

"Tony did," Tony said, his eyes closed again and a slight smile on his face. His expression darkened and he muttered, "Bitch deserved worse for this."

McGee realized Tony was talking about his hand and he asked, "_She_ did that to your hand?"

"She did. But Stone did the rest," Ziva confirmed. She moved on quickly, "I find it odd that Stone was not more upset by Miri's death. He was obviously devoted to her. He was killing for her, practicing for when Marcus—the Marine mugged at Lejeune—came back from his deployment later this month. Miri claimed she was stolen from her home, her family threatened if she did not go with Marcus. She and Stone attacked him, cementing their partnership. But then Stone barely blinked at her death."

Tony was glad for the change in topic but he didn't say anything. He was glad no one did either and he knew they didn't need to hear the details of the brutal beating—the evidence was in the damage to his body. "Commissary," he said, feeling his exhaustion flooding his veins just as surely as the blessed painkillers.

McGee and Gibbs exchanged confused glances, but Ziva just nodded slowly. "Stone went on a rant about 'fucking' Marines thinking they are so special. You are thinking he was just using Miri's story as a vent for his own rage? His own need to kill?"

"Mmmmm," was all Tony managed.

"That takes care of why they were doing it," McGee mused. "But how were they getting in? Shah playing damsel in distress?"

"Commissary," Tony said again, making Gibbs wonder if they shouldn't just move this party elsewhere and let the injured agent rest. Gibbs hadn't missed the tightening around Tony's mouth when he had talked about the bitch hurting him.

But then Ziva said, "Right. Stone brought receipts and cash to the couples' homes and fed them lines about having shortchanged them. Apparently they all just let him right in."

"And then he let Shah in to help," Gibbs said, disgusted. "If she was beating the husbands to get back at them for 'stealing' her people away from their homes, why did she let Stone rape the women?"

"I asked her that," Ziva said, fighting nauseating images of Miri dislocating Tony's thumb—which she had broken just seconds earlier. "I never got an answer. She was seriously deranged. I am not convinced that she was really 'stolen' by Marcus as she claimed, but perhaps we should look into her arrival here?"

"I'll talk to a buddy of mine at Lejeune," Gibbs said. "How did you know about Marcus? How did you know any of this?"

"They told us," Ziva said sourly. She glanced at Tony's broken hand and saw Gibbs' eyes narrow in understanding. She spoke for the benefit of the rest of the room. "Miri answered our questions in exchange for breaking Tony's fingers."

Abby gasped, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth, and Ziva heard Ducky swear for the first time in recent memory.

Ziva continued, looking straight at Tony and ignoring the fact that his eyes were closed. She knew he was awake and aware because of his uneven breathing. "That was a very brave thing to do. You got answers _and_ stalled them long enough to keep me safe. Thank you, Tony."

"Knife in your leg means not so safe, Zee-vah."

"Better than being raped and murdered by that redneck pig," she said bluntly.

"They say how they made Rios and Russell?" Gibbs asked, admiring Ziva's resolve.

"They made us, too," Ziva said, her tone bitter and her eyes downcast. "Miri said they spotted one of the other protection details, on the Nesbitts."

Gibbs made a low growl, thinking about the pair of agents who had nearly cost his agents their lives—and _had_ cost Rios and Russell theirs.

But Ziva just continued, her voice dull again. "I do not know how they made the listening post—or Rios and Russell specifically."

McGee thought back. "They came and pulled you out of the commissary," he said softly. His eyes hit the floor and he took a deep breath before continuing. "The night I asked them to tell you to meet me."

Ziva's eyes came up and her tone was sharp when she asked, "Are you saying Stone made them because he had already made us as undercover agents?"

"Easy," Gibbs cut in, holding up a hand. He mentally called up the reports on that day. "Stone left the commissary before they came in, right?"

Ziva nodded.

"So there's no telling what Stone overheard outside," Gibbs said calmly. "If he knew there were agents on the Nesbitts and then he saw a couple that fit the profile in the commissary—and then Rios and Russell just waiting outside—he might have made them then. He could easily have waited for them to leave and followed them back to the house."

"They wouldn't have been expecting a tail," McGee said. "Because they weren't the bait."

Ziva sighed, thinking that if it had been anyone but Gibbs, she would think she was being placated. But this was Gibbs. He didn't make excuses and he didn't tolerate mistakes. Ziva tried to think of anything she or Tony had done to draw suspicion, but unless Stone had a magic microphone in their bug-free bathroom or car, she could not come up with anything. Perhaps the worst part was knowing that they probably would not ever know for sure what had led the killers to Rios and Russell, aside from sloppy work by the agents covering the Nesbitts.

"You aren't to blame for their deaths," Gibbs said. He looked over to where Tony was faking sleep. "You with us, DiNozzo?"

There was a pause and then, "Listening, Boss."

Gibbs heard the pain in his voice and knew it wasn't related to broken bones. So he did something he rarely did and repeated himself. "Tony, Ziva," he said, waiting until their eyes were on him. Well, one only of Tony's was functioning, but Gibbs saw that he had both agents' full attention. "We may never know every detail of what went down. But those agents watching the Nesbitts screwed up. Not you. And maybe Rios and Russell screwed up, too. I don't know. But what I do know is that neither of you is to blame for their deaths. They were agents; they knew this was a dangerous op."

Gibbs looked from Ziva's leg to Tony's hand. "Just like you did. I don't want to hear another word about blame from any of you," he said, looking at McGee, too. "Got me?"

Ziva nodded. "Understood."

"Yes, Gibbs," McGee said.

"DiNozzo?"

"Got you, Boss," Tony finally said, sounding exhausted. "When are their funerals?"

"Friday morning," Gibbs answered, his tone going hard again. "But your ass stays planted in that bed, DiNozzo. You're not going. You either, David. No arguments."

Both Tony and Ziva opened their mouths to argue.

But Ducky finally spoke up. "I must agree with Jethro, my friends. I know you would like to say your goodbyes, but neither of you is in any shape to be up and about. No buts."

"But—"

"But—"

"No. Buts." Ducky looked to Ziva. "And it is about time to get you back to bed, young lady. We need to get that injury elevated and on its way to healing."

Ziva grumbled a complaint that didn't sound like English. She looked at Tony and found him watching her intently. She wanted to stay to talk with him, but then she realized whatever else they needed to say—whatever they hadn't covered in the past week—could wait. They had waited a year to apologize to each other; she figured any leftover conversations could be put off for another time.

So she just smiled at him. "Get some rest, Tony," she said, a wicked gleam in her eye. "But not too much. I bet Gibbs I would be out of this wretched hospital faster than you, and I intend on collecting."


	23. Chapter 23

It was Thursday morning before Gibbs found himself alone with a Tony coherent enough to have the conversation they needed to have. Gibbs knew it was only because the doctors had been slowly backing down on the painkillers, easing him off of the heavy-duty ones that turned DiNozzo from a competent federal agent into a babbling chatterbox of inanity.

Tony had been giving a rather animated review of the latest action flick, but he had faded into silence several long minutes ago, and Gibbs simply watched the agent stare at his injured hand, still propped up and heavily bandaged. Gibbs winced along with him when Tony gave the hand an experimental lift and ended up with his eyes closed, breathing deeply to get through the pain.

When Tony's eyes finally opened—both of them working now thanks to the decrease in swelling around the left one—he found Gibbs watching him with concerned blue eyes.

"I strike you as an optimist?" Gibbs asked, watching Tony frown thoughtfully at that.

"Not usually," Tony said, giving Gibbs a small smile. "But maybe when that bourbon kicks in and you think those boats of yours might actually float."

Gibbs rolled his eyes and gave his agent a mock-glare. "They all float, DiNozzo."

Tony managed something quite close to his usual grin despite the damage to his mouth. "Not the ones you burn."

Gibbs let out a chuckle before turning up the glare as Tony lapsed into silence again, his green eyes going troubled as he stared at his hand, only the bruised tip of his index finger poking out from the gauze.

"You gonna answer me?" Gibbs finally asked.

Tony sighed, wishing he could curl onto his side, both because the position had thus far proved impossible with his injuries—and that just made it _that_ much more desirable—and to get away from Gibbs' steady gaze.

"I don't need a pep talk, Boss," Tony said softly, staring straight up at the ceiling. "I don't want you to sit there and tell me everything's going to be okay."

Gibbs drew a long breath, trying to figure out how to relay Ducky's optimism without scaring Tony. "You really don't like it when I'm nice to you," he said, half-joking. "Thought maybe you'd gotten over that."

They were both thinking about the night Tony had spent drinking himself blind after his father's sudden visit. Tony didn't remember puking that night, but he woke up tasting the evidence—and somehow just knowing he hadn't been alone in Gibbs' bathroom through the worst of it.

Gibbs figured Tony's embarrassment over that—however unnecessary because that was just what friends did for each other—was at least part of what fueled the anger in his words.

"I don't want to hear it, Gibbs," Tony said, wishing he could get up and pace. "And not just because it's weird when you're nice to me."

"So why not?" Gibbs asked, pulling out patience from some rare store.

"Because there's a good chance everything _won't_ be okay," Tony said, his voice shaking slightly. "That bitch broke half the bones in my hand, Boss. I need two hands to be a field agent—two _working_ hands. If I can't requalify, I'm not just out of a job, I'm…"

Tony trailed off, the anger gone and replaced by pain and the slightest tinge of fear.

"You're not the job, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, wincing when he realized Tony would take that as an insult. He quickly said, "You're a damned good agent, Tony. But you'd be good at anything you do because you give it your all. So give your all to the rehab. You talked to Ducky. So you know the deal. You put in the work, you'll get the hand back."

"Simple as that, huh?" Tony said, his eyes still on his hand.

"Yep."

There were quiet for a long while, and Gibbs could practically see Tony gathering his strength and preparing himself for the long road to come. He wasn't sure he had ever been more proud.

"Not gonna be easy," Tony said, not meeting Gibbs' eyes.

"Nothing worth doing ever is."

Gibbs watched him flinch at his tone, and he thought back to Ducky's prediction that Tony would need their reassurance. "You want hand-holding, DiNozzo, you go to Abby," he said, watching Tony's gaze slip away again. "But if you need someone to kick your ass, you know I'll be there to do it, Tony."

Gibbs watched the slow smile creep across Tony's face as he met his boss's eyes again. Gibbs just stared back into slightly glittering green eyes underlined by the twin bruises from his broken nose, and he looked past the injuries and saw the strength beneath.

"Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs grinned. "Don't thank me yet. You've got a load of reports to write, and that right hand looks just fine to me."

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Tony?" McGee asked later that night.

He and Abby and Ziva had gathered in Tony's room to discuss escape plans for the morning.

"We're going to that funeral, McGee," Tony said, his voice tight with pain since he had stonewalled the doctor into taking him completely off the IV painkillers. His hand burned like liquid fire, but his head was clear for the first time in days so he figured it was a fair trade. "It'll be a hell of a lot easier if you and Abby help us, but we're going either way."

"This is blackmail," Abby said, but her eyes were lit up with the thrill of the clandestine mission. "I'm in."

McGee was not so convinced. "Ziva, you can't even walk."

She snorted delicately. "Excuse me, McGee, but I was walking down the hallways just this afternoon."

"With help," McGee shot back, glad he could outrun her—for once. _But not forever_, he realized with a gulp.

"So then _help_ us," Ziva said, smiling.

McGee turned his eyes to Tony, who was paler and obviously hurting—but no less determined. Still, McGee said, "You look like crap, DiNozzo. Gibbs will kill us for helping you escape. Can you even stand up?"

"I walked to the head all by myself today, McScaredyCat," Tony said. "I'm fine."

McGee rolled his eyes. "You were bleeding internally when we brought you in less than a week ago."

Tony winced at the fear that popped up in Abby's eyes and he wanted to headslap McGee for scaring her. But he was on Tony's bad side so he settled for a Gibbs-worthy glare. "Not bleeding anymore," he grumbled. "Haven't been for days."

"You have more injuries than I can even remember," McGee countered. "You are not fine."

"I'll be pissing blood for a few more days and being damned glad that I'm right-handed," Tony said, lifting a shoulder, wincing at the pain in his ribs and leaving out the part about wishing he were magically anaerobic. "But otherwise, I'm fine."

McGee eyed his bruised face and started to give in. "You forgot avoiding mirrors."

Tony gave him another glare. "Guess you missed the Boy Scout lesson about not kicking a man when he's down," he muttered.

McGee opened his mouth and Tony said with him, "Yeah, yeah, you were a Webelos."

Abby and Ziva exchanged a grin.

"So you are in, McGee?" Ziva asked, her sweetly deadly smile almost making up his mind for him.

Still, the junior agent tried one more approach. "Who's going to help you after? When you get home? You'll need help cooking, and cleaning, and…" He trailed off, his cheeks going red.

"Awww, Timmy," Tony said, grinning. "Are you offering to stay with me and help me open jars and shit, or do you just want to see me naked?"

"I'll stay with you, Ziva," Abby said, throwing a wicked grin McGee's way.

Tony rolled his eyes. "We're trying to talk him _into_ this, Abbs. Not out of it. Don't worry about it, McGee. We both know Gibbs will show up at my place with a headslap, a lecture and a pizza."

Ziva's eyes darkened fractionally at that, but Tony continued, "And Gibbs'll show up at your place with a much gentler headslap, the same lecture and … whatever it is that crazy ninja chicks use as fuel. Am I right? Or am I right?"

Abby was nodding enthusiastically, McGee was finally nodding, and Ziva's eyes were dancing as they all held out their hands near Tony's good one. He grinned as his hand settled onto the pile.

"Let's make a plan, kids."

* * *

Out in the hallway, Gibbs walked away to get more coffee, shaking his head and smiling as he went.

* * *

Everything went according to that plan the next morning.

Except the part where Abby and McGee were to push Tony's and Ziva's wheelchairs into the elevator.

The injured agents just exchanged a glance, stood up shakily and hobbled into the elevator, Tony leaning on Ziva who was leaning on the cane she had reluctantly agreed to while signing her AMA papers in front of a glaring doctor.

McGee and Abby just stared as the door started to close and Tony gave them a thumbs-up with his good hand and Ziva called, "Meet you down at the car!"

Tony and Ziva both laughed at the same time—and then yawned. They were leaving at the crack of dawn so as to escape Gibbs, who had finally agreed to go home now that he had his answers and his agents were both of the woods and well on their respective roads to recovery. Tony also had a sneaking suspicion Gibbs wouldn't be surprised in the least when they showed up at the cemetery, and Tony figured Gibbs was purposely making their escape easier.

Maybe.

Or maybe he was going to shoot them both on sight.

Tony and Ziva made their way across the lobby slowly, weaving like a pair of drunken winos—and knowing they probably didn't smell much better considering neither had had more than a sponge bath in the past few days.

But Ziva's dark pantsuit covered the bandages on her thigh and Tony's black suit jacket was draped over his shoulder, mostly covering the sling supporting his damaged hand. Both had their badges at their hips, the black bands on them having been placed there by Ziva's trembling hands that morning as they had shared a look and a promise not to take blame where it was not due.

The fallen agents were not far from either's mind as they stepped out into the warm morning.

"You know, I always get up early," Ziva said, watching the sun gather its strength to launch itself up into the red-streaked sky. "I have watched this sun rise a thousand times. Over Israel, over America…"

"Over places you could tell me about," Tony joked softly, "but you'd have to kill me."

Ziva grinned back at him and then turned and watched the sun's steady trek upward out of the lingering darkness. "But it has never looked so beautiful."

Tony wanted to tell her that her uncompromising strength was beautiful, too. That she was beautiful. But honestly, her hair was slightly matted despite Abby's best efforts and she had a bruise along her cheekbone that was still swollen and making it look like she was squinting slightly.

So he linked arms with her, knowing he was bent over like an old man because of the pain, and he nodded at her cane.

"We may have only been living in 'matrimony' for a week, Ziva, but we look like an old married couple," he said.

Ziva laughed. "After a train wreck," she said, feeling feisty despite her exhaustion. "But we are not old. Or married. We are just…"

Tony took her free hand with his uninjured one and squeezed.

"Partners?" he supplied.

She smiled up at him before turning her eyes to the rising sun.

"Partners."


End file.
